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Her Flowing Locks.

I kiss'd her owre and owre again,
Amang the rigs o' barley.

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

I ha'e been blithe wi' comrades dear;
I ha'e been merry drinkin';
I ha'e been joyfu' gath'rin' gear;
I ha'e been happy thinkin';
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.

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HER flowing locks, the raven's wing,
Adown her neck and bosom hing;
How sweet unto that breast to cling,

An' round that neck entwine her!

Her lips are roses wat wi' dew,
Oh, what a feast her bonnie mou' !
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue,
A crimson still diviner.

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TUNE-"The weaver and his shuttle, O."

My father was a farmer upon the Carrick border, O, And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O; He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a farthing, O;

For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O.

Then out into the world my course I did determine, O; Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great

was charming, 0:

My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, O;

Resolv'd was I at least to try to mend my situation,O. In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's favour, O;

Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, O.

*"This song is a wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in versification: but as the sentiments are the genuine feelings of my heart, for that reason I have a particular pleasure in conning it over." - Burns's Reliques, p. 329.

My Father was a Farmer.


Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd; sometimes by friends forsaken, O:

And when my hope was at the top I still was worst mistaken, O.

Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last with fortune's vain delusion, O,

I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, O

The past was bad, and the future hid; its good or ill untried, O;

But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would enjoy it, O.

No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me, O;

So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sustain me, 0:

To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, O;

For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for fortune fairly, O.

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, O,

Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber, O.

No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow, O!

I live to-day as well's I may, regardless of tomorrow, O.

But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in a palace, O,

Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, O;

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 unforeseen misfortune comes gen'rally upon me, 0:

Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my goodnatur'd 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, O:

Bruce's Address.


Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O,

A cheerful, honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O.


TUNE-"Hey, tuttie taittie."

["The old air, 'Hey, tuttie taittie,' with Fraser's hautboy, has often filled my eyes with tears. There is a tradition, which I have met with in many places of Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce's march at the battle of Bannockburn. This thought, in my solitary wanderings, warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of liberty and independence, which I threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that one might suppose to be the gallant Royal Scot's address to his heroic followers on that eventful morning."-Burns to G. Thomson, September, 1793.]

SCOTS, wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,
Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to victorie!

Now's the day, and now 's the hour;

See the front o' battle lour;

See approach proud Edward's power-
Chains and slavery!

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?

Let him turn and flee!


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