I make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can make it farther, O;
But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.
When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money, O,
Some unforseen misfortune comes generally upon me, 0:
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natured folly, O:
But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be melancholy, O.
All you who follow wealth and power with unremitting ardour, O,
The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the
farther, 0:

Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O,
A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O.

JOHN BARLEYCORN.

A BALLAD.

THERE were three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high;

And they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and ploughed him down,

Put clods upon his head;

And they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,

And showers began to fall;

John Barleycorn got up again,

And sore surprised them all.

The sultry sons of Summer came,
And he grew thick and strong;
His head weel armed wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober Autumn entered mild,
When he grew wan and pale;

His bending joints and drooping head
Showed he began to fail.

His colour sickened more and more,

He faded into age;

And then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.

They've taen a weapon, long and sharp,

And cut him by the knee;

Then tied him fast upon a cart,

Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgelled him full sore;

They hung him up before the storm,

And turned him o'er and o'er.

have

taken

And they hae taen his very heart's blood,
And drunk it round and round;

And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise;

For if you do but taste his blood,
"Twill make your courage rise.

"Twill make a man forget his wo;
"Twill heighten all his joy:
"Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Though the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

taken

MARY MORRISON.

OH, Mary, at thy window be,

It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see,

That make the miser's treasure poor: How blithely wad I bide the stoure,

A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morrison.

Yestreen when to the trembling string,
The dance gaed through the lighted ha',

To thee my fancy took its wing,

I sat, but neither heard nor saw.

Though this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,

I sighed, and said amang them a',
"Ye are na Mary Morrison."

would, dust

from

last night went

not

Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed

To see me through 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 loved her most sincerely;
I kissed her owre and owre again,
Amang the rigs o' barley.

I locked 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 brigh
That shone that hour so clearly!
She aye shall bless that happy night,
Amang the rigs o' barley.

I hae been blithe wi' comrades dear;

I hae been merry drinkin';

I hae been joyfu' gath'rin' gear;

I hae been happy thinkin':

But a' the pleasures e'er I saw,

Though three times doubled fairly,

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

CHORUS.

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

among

knew, own

over

money

MONTGOMERY'S PEGGY.

TUNE-Gala Water.

ALTHOUGH my bed were in yon muir
Amang the heather, in my plaidie,
Yet happy, happy would I be,

Had I my dear Montgomery's Peggy.

When o'er the hill beat surly storms,

And winter nights were dark and rainy;
I'd seek some dell, and in my arms
I'd shelter dear Montgomery's Peggy.

Were I a baron proud and high,

And horse and servants waiting ready, Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me,

The sharin't with Montgomery's Peggy.

among

twould, give sharing it

SONG 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;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells;
The soaring hern the fountains:
Through 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 every 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 murdering cry,
The fluttering gory pinion.

But Peggy, dear, the evening's clear,
Thick flies the skimming swallow;

The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow :

western

among

heron

wood-pigeon

Come, let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms of nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And every 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 showers to budding flowers,
Not Autumn to the farmer,

So dear can be as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely charmer!

GREEN GROW THE RASHES.

TUNE-Green grow the Rashes.
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.

CHORUS.

Green grow the rashes, O!

Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hour that e'er I spend
Are spent among the lasses, O.

The warly race may riches chase,
And riches still may fly them, O;
And though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

But gie me a canny hour at e'en,
My arms about my dearie, O;
And warly cares, and warly men,
May a' gae tapsaltcerie, O.

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses,
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, 0:
Her 'prentice hand she tried on man,
And then she made the lasses, O.

:

rushes

worldly

give, happy

topsy-turvy

so grave

THE CURE FOR ALL CARE.
TUNE-Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the tavern let's fly.
No churchman am I for to rail and to write,
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,
No sly man of business contriving a snare-
For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care.