So gat the whissle o' my groat,

An' pay't the fee.

But by my gun,

o' guns the wale,

An' by my pouther an'

my bail,

An' by my hen, an' by her tail,

I vow an' fwear!

The Game fhall Pay, owre moor an' dail,

For this, nieft year.

As foon's the clockin-time is by, An' the wee ports begun to cry, L-d, I'fe hae fportin by an' by,

For my gowd guinea;

Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye

For't, in Virginia!

Trowth, they had muckle for to blame! 'Twas neither broken wing nor limb,

But twa-three draps about the wame

Scarce thro' the feathers;

An' baith a yellow George to claim,

An' thole their blethers!

It pits me ay as mad's a hare;

So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;
But pennyworths again is fair,

When time's expedient :

Meanwhile I am, respected Sir,

Your most obedient.

IT

When corn rigs are bonie,

Beneath the moon's unclouded light,

I held awa to Annie:

The time flew by, wi' tentless head,
Till 'tween the late and early;
Wi' fma' perfuafion fhe agreed,

To fee me thro' the barley.

The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly;
I fet 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 fincerely;

I kiss'd her owre and owre again,

Amang the rigs o' barley.

I lock'd her in my

III.

fond embrace;

Her heart was beating rarely:

My bleffings on that happy place,
Amang the rigs o' barley!

But by the moon and ftars fo bright,
That shone that night fo clearly!

She

ay shall bless that happy night,

Amang the rigs o' barley.

IV.

I hae been blythe wi' Comrades dear;

I hae been merry drinking;

I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear;
I hae been happy thinking:
But a' the pleasures e'er I faw,

Tho' three times doubl'd fairly,

That happy night was worth them a',
Amang the rigs o' barley.

CHORU S.

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

SONG,

COMPOSED IN AUGUST.

Tune, I had a horse, 1 had nae mair.

I.

OW weftlin winds, and flaught'ring

Now

guns

Bring Autumn's pleasant weather ;

And the moorcock fprings, on whirring wings, Amang the blooming heather:

Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,

Delights the weary Farmer;

1

And the moon fhines bright, when I rove at

night,

To muse upon my Charmer.

II.

The Partridge loves the fruitful fells;
The Plover loves the mountains;
The Woodcock haunts the lonely dells;
The foaring Hern the fountains:
Thro' lofty groves, the Cufhat roves,
The path of man to fhun it;

The hazel bush o'erhangs the Thrush,
The spreading thorn the Linnet.

III.

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find,

The favage and the tender;

Some focial join, and leagues combine;

Some folitary wander:

Ee