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, refpected Sir,

Your most obedient.

SO N G.

Tune, Corn rigs are bonie.

I.

T was upon a Lammas night,

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 see me thro' the barley.

II.

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 moft fincerely;

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 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;

It pits me ay as mad's a hare;

So I can rhyme nor write nae mair;

But pennyworths again is fair,

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 she agreed,
To see me thro' the barley.

And the moorcock fprings, 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

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 shun 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 solitary wander:

E e

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 bonie:

I'll ne'er forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wi' Annie.

S O N G,

COMPOSED IN AUGUST.

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

I.

OW weftlin winds, and flaught'ring

Now

guns

Bring Autumn's pleasant weather;