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But fickle fortune frowns on me,
An' I maun cross the raging sea;
But while my crimson currents flow
I'll love my Highland lassie, O.

Altho' thro' foreign climes I

range, I know her heart will never change,

For her bosom burns with honour's glow, My faithful Highland lassie, O.

For her I'll dare the billows' roar,
For her I'll trace a distant shore,
That Indian wealth may lustre throw
Around my Highland lassie, O.

She has my heart, she has my hand,
By sacred truth an' honour's band!
Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low,
To sing my Highland lassie, O.

Farewell the glen sae bushy, O!
Farewell the plain sae rushy, O!
To other lands I now must go,
I'm thine, my Highland lassie, O.

John Barleycorn.


To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains,
Where late wi' careless thought I rang'd,
Though prest wi' care and sunk in woe,
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;

And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn was dead.

*This is partly composed on the plan of an old song known by the

same name.

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;

And then his enemies began

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;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

John Barleycorn.

They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim;

They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor
To work him further woe;
And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones;

But a miller us'd him worst of all,

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;

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 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!


TUNE-"Corn rigs are bonnie."

Ir 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.


Corn rigs, and barley rigs,

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

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 kent her heart was a' my ain;
I lov'd her most sincerely;

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