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

They wasted o'er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones ;
But a miller us'd him worst of all,

For he crush'd him 'tween two stones.

And they hae taen his very heart's blood,
And drunk 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,
Tho' 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!

The Rigs o' Barlry. (309) TUNE-Corn Rigs are bonnie. Ir was upon a Lammas night,

When corn rigs are bonnie, Beneath the moon's unclouded light, I heft awa to Annie:

The time flew by wi' tentless heed,
Till 'tween the late and early,
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed
To see me thro' the barley.

The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly;
I set her down wi' right good will
Amang the rigs o' barley;
I ken't her heart was a' my ain;
I lov'd her most sincerely;
I kiss'd her owre and owre again,
Amang the rigs o' barley.

I 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 bless 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'rin' gear;
I hae been happy thinkin';
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw,

Tho' three times doubl'd fairly, That happy night was worth them a’, Amang the rigs o' barley.

CHORUS.

Corn rigs, and barley rigs,

And corn rigs are bonnie: I'll ne'er forget that happy night Amang the rigs wi' Annie.

The Ploughman.
TUNE-Up wi' the Ploughman.
THE ploughman he's a bonnie lad,
His mind is ever true, jo;
His garters knit below his knee,
His bonnet it is blue, jo.

Then up wi' my ploughman lad,
And hey my merry ploughman!
Of a' the trades that I do ken,

Commend me to the ploughman.
My ploughman he comes hame at e'en,
He's aften wat and weary;
Cast off the wat, put on the dry,
And gae to bed, my dearie!
I will wash my ploughman's hose,
And I will dress his o'erlay;
I will mak my ploughman's bed,
And cheer him late and early.

I hae been east, I hae been west,
I hae been at Saint Johnston;
The bonniest sight that e'er I saw
Was the ploughman laddie dancin'.
Snaw-white stockins on his legs,

And siller buckles glancin';
A guid blue bonnet on his head-
And oh, but he was handsome!

Commend me to the barn-yard,
And at the corn-mou, man ;

I never gat my coggie fou,
Till I meet wi' the ploughman.

Song composed in August. (310) TUNE- I had a horse, 1 had nae mair. Now westling 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; [night And the moon shines bright, when I rove at 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; I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, Swear how I love thee dearly: 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!

My Nannie's charming, sweet, and 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, 0:
The op'ning gowan, wet wi dew,
Nae purer is than Nannie, O.

A country lad is my degree,

And few there be that ken me, 0;
But what care I how few they be?
I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O.
My riches a's my penny-fee,

And 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 and kye thrive bonnie, 0; But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh, And has nae care but Namie, O.

Come weel, come woe, I care nae by,
I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, 0;
Nae ither care in life have I,

But live, and love my Nannie, O.

Green Grom the Rashes. (313) TUNE-Green grow the Rashes.

CHORUS.

Green grow the rashes, O!

Green grow the rashes, O! The sweetest hours that e'er I spend Are spent amang the lasses, O. There's nought but care on ev'ry han', In every hour that passes, O: What signifies the life o' man,

An 'twere na for the lasses, O.

The warlly race may riches chase,

And riches still may fly them, 0 ; And tho' at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O, But gie me a canny hour at e’en,

My arms about my dearie, O;
And warl'ly cares, and warl'ly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O.
For you sae douce, 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.
Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, 0:
Her 'prentice han' she tried on man,
And then she made the lasses, O.

The Cure for all Care. TUNE-Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the Tavern let's fly.

No churchman am I for to rail and to write, No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, No sly man of business contriving a suareFor a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my

care.

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow;
I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low :
But a club of good fellows, like those that
are here,

And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.
Here
passes the squire on his brother-his
horse;

There centum per centum, the cit with his

purse;

But see you The Crown, how it waves in the air!

There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care.

The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;
For sweet consolation to church I did fly;
I found that old Solomon proved it fair,
That a big-bellied bottle's a cure for all care.
I once was persuaded a venture to make;
A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up
stairs,
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.
Life's cares they are comforts" (314)—o
maxim laid down

;