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But fickle fortune frowns on me,
Altho' thro' foreign climes I range,
For her I'll dare the billows' roar,
She has my heart, she has my hand,
Farewell the glen sae bushy, O !
TO THEE, LOV'D NITH.
To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains,
To thee I bring a heart unchang'd.
I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes,
Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear; For there he rov'd that brake my heart,
Yet to that heart, ah! still how dear !
THERE were three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high; And they ha’e sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.
They took a plough and plough'd him down,
Put clods upon his head;
John Barleycorn was dead.
* This is partly composed on the plan of an old song known by the
But the cheerful spring came kindly on,
And show'rs began to fall; John Barleycorn came up again,
And sore surpris'd them all.
The sultry suns of summer came,
And he grew thick and strong; His head weel arm’d wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.
The sober autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale; His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.
His colour sicken’d more and more,
He faded into age;
To show their deadly rage.
They've ta’en 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 cudgell’d him full sore ;
And turn'd him o'er and o’er.
They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim;
There let him sink or swim.
They laid him out upon the floor
To work him further woe;
They toss'd him to and fro.
They wasted o'er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones;
For he crush'd him 'tween two stones.
And they ha’e ta’en his very heart's blood,
And drunk it round and round;
Their joy did more abound.
John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise;
'Twill make your courage rise.
”Twill make a man forget his woe;
'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!
THE RIGS O’ BARLEY.
TUNE—“Corn rigs are bonnie."
When corn rigs are bonnie,
I held awa' to Annie:
Till 'tween the late and early,
To see me thro' the barley.
Corn rigs, and barley rigs,
And corn rigs are bonnie:
Amang the rigs wi' Annie.
The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly;
Amang the rigs o' barley;
I lov'd her most sincerely;