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 fear'd them a', man!"

IX.

But, word and blow, North, Fox, and Co.
Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man,
'Till Suthrons 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.

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.

II.

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.

III.

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.

IV.

I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear;
I hae merry drinkin;

I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear;
I hae been happy thinking:
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, an' barley rigs,

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

SONG,

Composed in August.

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

I.

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.

II.

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.

III.

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!

IV.

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 ev'ry happy creature.

V.

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!

SONG.

Tune," My Nanie, 0."

I.

Behind yon hills where Lugar" flows,
'Mang moors and mosses many, O,
The wintry sun the day has elos'd,
And I'll awa to Nanie, O.

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;
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O:

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, O,

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
His sheep and kye thrive bonnie, O;
But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh,
An' has nae care but Nanie, O.

VIII.

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, O.

GREEN GROW THE RASHES.

A FRAGMENT.

CHORUS.

Green grow the rashes, O;

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