GREEN grow the rashes, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e'er I spent,
Were spent amang the lasses, O!
There's nought but care on every han',
In every hour that passes, 0:
What signifies the life o' man,
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O?
The warly race may riches chase,
An' riches still may fly them, O;
An' though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.
But gi'e me a canny hour at e'en,
My arms about my dearie, O;
An' warly cares, an' warly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!
For you sae douse, ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,
He dearly loved the lasses, O.
Auld Nature swears the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O;
Her 'prentice han' she tried on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.
Tune-"Jockey's grey breeks."
AGAIN rejoicing Nature sees
Her robe assume her vernal hues, Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steeped in morning dews.
And maun I still on Menie 2 doat,
And bear the scorn that's in her e'e?
For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk,
An' it winna let a body be!
The shepherd steeks his faulding slap,
And owre the moorlands whistles shrill;
Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step
I meet him on the dewy hill.
And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,
Blithe waukens by the daisy's side,
And mounts and sings on flittering wings,
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide.
Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,
And, raging, bend the naked tree;
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,
When Nature all is sad like me!
And maun I still on Menie doat,
And bear the scorn that's in her e'e?
For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk,
An' it winna let a body be:
1 This chorus is part of a song composed by a gentleman in Edinburgh,
a particular friend of the Author's.
2 Menie is the common abbreviation of Marianne.
[Composed when the Poet thought of leaving Scotland, and going to the West Indies.]
THE gloomy night is gath'ring fast,
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast;
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain,
I see it driving o'er the plain;
The hunter now has left the moor,
The scattered coveys meet secure,
While here I wander, pressed with care,
Along the lonely banks of Ayr.
The Autumn mourns her ripening corn
By early Winter's ravage torn;
Across her placid azure sky
She sees the scowling tempest fly:
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave;
I think upon the stormy wave,
Where many a danger I must dare,
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr.
"Tis not the surging billow's roar ;
"Tis not that fatal deadly shore;
Though death in every shape appear,
The wretched have no more to fear:
But round my heart the ties are bound,
That heart transpierced with many a wound;
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear,
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr.
Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales!
Her heathy moors and winding vales;
The scenes where wretched fancy roves,
Pursuing past unhappy loves!
Farewell, my friends! farewell, my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those :-
The bursting tears my heart declare,
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr!
[Composed at the same period.]
Tune-"The Northern Lass."
THOUGH cruel Fate should bid us part,
Far as the Pole and Line,
Her dear idea round my heart
Should tenderly entwine.
Though mountains rise, and deserts howl,
And oceans roar between;
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,
I still would love my Jean.
[This song, it is said, commemorates an incident which occurred when Robert Burns was born.]
THERE was a lad was born in Kyle,"
But what'n a day o' what'n a style
I doubt it's hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi' Robin.
Robin was a rovin' boy,
Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin';
Robin was a rovin' boy,
Rantin' rovin' Robin!
Our monarch's hindmost year but ane
Was five-and-twenty days begun,
"Twas then a blast o' Janwar win'
Blew hansel in on Robin.
The gossip keekit 3 in his loof; 4
Quo' she, Wha lives will see the proof,
This waly boy will be nae coof,6-
I think we'll ca' him Robin.
He'll hae misfortunes great and sma',
But aye a heart aboon them a';
He'll be a credit 'till us a',
We'll a' be proud o' Robin.
2 A district of Ayrshire.
5 Goodly.
But, sure as three times three mak' nine,
I see, by ilka score and line,
This chap will dearly like our kin’,—
So leeze me on thee,1 Robin!
Guid faith, quo' she, I doubt ye gar,
The bonnie lasses lie aspar;
But twenty fauts ye may ha'e waur,
So blessin's on thee, Robin!
Robin was a rovin' boy,
Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin';
Robin was a rovin' boy,
Rantin' rovin' Robin!
Tune-"Braes o' Balquhidder."
I'LL kiss thee yet, yet,
An' I'll kiss thee o'er again;
An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet,
My bonnie Peggy Alison!
Ilk care and fear, when thou art near,
I ever mair defy them, O;
Young kings upon their hansel throne
Are nae sae blest as I am, O;
When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure, O,
I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share,
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O!
And by thy een, sae bonnie blue,
I swear I'm thine for ever, O!
And on thy lips I seal my vow,
And break it shall I never, O!
I'll kiss thee yet, yet,
An' I'll kiss thee o'er again;
An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet,
My bonnie Peggy Alison!
Blessings on thee.
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