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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,

A secret word or twa, man ; While slee Dundas arous'd the class

Be-north the Roman wa', man : An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith,

(Inspired bardies saw, man,) Wi' kindling eyes cry'd, “Willie, rise !

Would I hae feard them a', man!”

IX. But, word and blow, North, Fox, and Co.

Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man, 'Till Suthron raise, and coost their claise

Behind him in a raw, man,
An' Caledon threw by the drone,

An' did her whittle draw, man ;
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood

To make it guid in law, man.


Tune, "Corn rigs are bonnie."

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,

'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 thinking :
But a' the pleasurés e’er I saw,

Tho' three times doubl'd fairly, That happy night was worth them a',

Amang the rigs o' barley.


Corn rigs, an' barley rigs,

An' corn rigs are bonnie :
I'll ne'er forget that happy night,

Amang the rigs wi' Annie.


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 ş :
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 fies 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 ev'ry 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!


Tune, “ My Nanie, 0."

Behind yon hills where Lugar* flows,

'Mang moors an' mosses many, 0, The wintry sun the day has clos'd,

And I'll awa to Nanie, O.

II. The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill;

The night's baith mirk and rainy, 0; But I'll get my plaid an' out I'll steal,

An' owre the hills to Nanie, 0.

III. My Nanie's charming, sweet, and young ;

Nae artfu' wiles to win 0: May ill befa' the flattering tongue

That wad beguile my Nanie, O.


* Originally, Stinchar.

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 Nanie, 0.

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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, 0.

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, 0.

Our auld guidman delights to view

His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, 0;
But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh,

An' has nae care but Nanie, 0.

Come weel, come woe, I care na by,

I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O;
Nae ither care in life have I,

But live, an' love my Nanie, 0.



Green grow the rashes, 0;

Green grow the rashes, 0;
The sweetest hours that e'er I spent

Are spent amang the lasses, 0,

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