Oh, sing unto my roundelay;Oh, drop the briny tear with me;Dance no more at holiday,Like a running river be;My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.Black his hair as the winter night,White his neck as summer snow,Ruddy his face as the morning light,Cold he lies in the grave below:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.Sweet his tongue as throstle's note,Quick in dance as thought was he;Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;Oh! he lies by the willow-tree.My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.Hark! the raven flaps his wing,In the briered dell below;Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing,To the nightmares as they go.My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.See! the white moon shines on high;Whiter is my true-love's shroud;Whiter than the morning sky,Whiter than the evening cloud.My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.Here, upon my true-love's grave,Shall the garish flowers be laid,Nor one holy saint to saveAll the sorrows of a maid.My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.With my hands I'll bind the briers,Round his holy corse to gre;Elfin-fairy, light your fires,Here my body still shall be.My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.Come with acorn cup and thorn,Drain my heart's blood all away;Life and all its good I scorn,Dance by night, or feast by day,My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.Water-witches, crowned with reytes,Bear me to your deadly tide.I die—I come—my true-love waits.Thus the damsel spake, and died.
Oh, sing unto my roundelay;Oh, drop the briny tear with me;Dance no more at holiday,Like a running river be;My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.
Black his hair as the winter night,White his neck as summer snow,Ruddy his face as the morning light,Cold he lies in the grave below:My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.
Sweet his tongue as throstle's note,Quick in dance as thought was he;Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;Oh! he lies by the willow-tree.My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.
Hark! the raven flaps his wing,In the briered dell below;Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing,To the nightmares as they go.My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.
See! the white moon shines on high;Whiter is my true-love's shroud;Whiter than the morning sky,Whiter than the evening cloud.My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.
Here, upon my true-love's grave,Shall the garish flowers be laid,Nor one holy saint to saveAll the sorrows of a maid.My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.
With my hands I'll bind the briers,Round his holy corse to gre;Elfin-fairy, light your fires,Here my body still shall be.My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.
Come with acorn cup and thorn,Drain my heart's blood all away;Life and all its good I scorn,Dance by night, or feast by day,My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.
Water-witches, crowned with reytes,Bear me to your deadly tide.I die—I come—my true-love waits.Thus the damsel spake, and died.
Piping down the valleys wild,Piping songs of pleasant glee,On a cloud I saw a child,And he, laughing, said to me,'Pipe a song about a lamb,'So I piped with merry cheer;'Piper, pipe that song again,'So I piped: he wept to hear.'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,Sing thy songs of happy cheer.'So I sang the same again,While he wept with joy to hear.'Piper, sit thee down and writeIn a book that all may read.'So he vanish'd from my sight:And I pluck'd a hollow reed,And I made a rural pen,And I stain'd the water clear,And I wrote my happy songsEvery child may joy to hear.
Piping down the valleys wild,Piping songs of pleasant glee,On a cloud I saw a child,And he, laughing, said to me,
'Pipe a song about a lamb,'So I piped with merry cheer;'Piper, pipe that song again,'So I piped: he wept to hear.
'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,Sing thy songs of happy cheer.'So I sang the same again,While he wept with joy to hear.
'Piper, sit thee down and writeIn a book that all may read.'So he vanish'd from my sight:And I pluck'd a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen,And I stain'd the water clear,And I wrote my happy songsEvery child may joy to hear.
Tiger, tiger, burning brightIn the forest of the night,What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt the ardour of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire—What the hand dare seize the fire?And what shoulder, and what artCould twist the sinews of thy heart?And when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand form'd thy dread feet?What the hammer, what the chain,In what furnace was thy brain?Did God smile his work to see?Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger, tiger, burning brightIn the forest of the night,What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt the ardour of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire—What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what artCould twist the sinews of thy heart?And when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand form'd thy dread feet?
What the hammer, what the chain,In what furnace was thy brain?Did God smile his work to see?Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Scots, wha hae 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 of battle lour;See approach proud Edward's power—Chains and slaverie!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!Wha for Scotland's King and LawFreedom's sword will strongly draw,Freeman stand, or free-man fa'?Let him follow me!By Oppression's woes and pains!By your sons in servile chains!We will drain our dearest veins,But they shall be free!Lay the proud usurpers low!Tyrants fall in every foe!Liberty's in every blow!Let us do, or die!
Scots, wha hae 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 of battle lour;See approach proud Edward's power—Chains and slaverie!
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!
Wha for Scotland's King and LawFreedom's sword will strongly draw,Freeman stand, or free-man fa'?Let him follow me!
By Oppression's woes and pains!By your sons in servile chains!We will drain our dearest veins,But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!Tyrants fall in every foe!Liberty's in every blow!Let us do, or die!
Is there, for honest poverty,That hings his head, and a' that;The coward-slave, we pass him by,We dare be poor for a' that!For a' that, and a' that;Our toils obscure, and a' that;The rank is but the guinea's stamp:The man's the gowd for a' that.What tho' on hamely fare we dine,Wear hoddin grey, and a' that;Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,A man's a man for a' that.For a' that, and a' that,Their tinsel show, and a' that;The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,Is king o' men for a' that.Ye see yon birkie, ca'd 'a lord,'Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;Tho' hundreds worship at his word,He's but a coof for a' that:For a' that, and a' that,His riband, star, an' a' that,The man of independent mind,He looks and laughs at a' that.A prince can mak' a belted knight,A marquis, duke, an' a' that;But an honest man's aboon his might,Guid faith he mauna fa' that!For a' that, an' a' that,Their dignities, and a' that,The pith o' sense an' pride o' worth,Are higher rank than a' that.Then let us pray that come it may,As come it will for a' that;That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,May bear the gree, an' a' that.For a' that, and a' that,It's comin' yet, for a' that,That man to man, the warld o'er,Shall brothers be for a' that.
Is there, for honest poverty,That hings his head, and a' that;The coward-slave, we pass him by,We dare be poor for a' that!For a' that, and a' that;Our toils obscure, and a' that;The rank is but the guinea's stamp:The man's the gowd for a' that.
What tho' on hamely fare we dine,Wear hoddin grey, and a' that;Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,A man's a man for a' that.For a' that, and a' that,Their tinsel show, and a' that;The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd 'a lord,'Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;Tho' hundreds worship at his word,He's but a coof for a' that:For a' that, and a' that,His riband, star, an' a' that,The man of independent mind,He looks and laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak' a belted knight,A marquis, duke, an' a' that;But an honest man's aboon his might,Guid faith he mauna fa' that!For a' that, an' a' that,Their dignities, and a' that,The pith o' sense an' pride o' worth,Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,As come it will for a' that;That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,May bear the gree, an' a' that.For a' that, and a' that,It's comin' yet, for a' that,That man to man, the warld o'er,Shall brothers be for a' that.
O, my luve's like a red, red rose,That's newly sprung in June:O, my luve's like the melodieThat's sweetly play'd in tune.As fair art thou, my bonie lass,So deep in luve am I:And I will luve thee still, my dear,Till a' the seas gang dry.Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,And the rocks melt wi' the sun:I will luve thee still, my dear,While the sands o' life shall run.And fare thee weel, my only luve,And fare thee weel awhile!And I will come again, my luve,Tho' it were ten thousand mile!
O, my luve's like a red, red rose,That's newly sprung in June:O, my luve's like the melodieThat's sweetly play'd in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonie lass,So deep in luve am I:And I will luve thee still, my dear,Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,And the rocks melt wi' the sun:I will luve thee still, my dear,While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve,And fare thee weel awhile!And I will come again, my luve,Tho' it were ten thousand mile!
O, Jenny's a' weet, poor body,Jenny's seldom dry;She draigl't a' her petticoatie,Comin' thro' the rye.Comin' thro' the rye, poor body,Comin' thro' the rye,She draigl't a' her petticoatie,Comin' thro' the rye!Gin a body meet a body—Comin' thro' the rye;Gin a body kiss a body—Need a body cry?Gin a body meet a bodyComin' thro' the glen,Gin a body kiss a body—Need the warld ken?Jenny's a' weet, poor body;Jenny's seldom dry;She draigl't a' her petticoatie,Comin' thro' the rye.
O, Jenny's a' weet, poor body,Jenny's seldom dry;She draigl't a' her petticoatie,Comin' thro' the rye.
Comin' thro' the rye, poor body,Comin' thro' the rye,She draigl't a' her petticoatie,Comin' thro' the rye!
Gin a body meet a body—Comin' thro' the rye;Gin a body kiss a body—Need a body cry?
Gin a body meet a bodyComin' thro' the glen,Gin a body kiss a body—Need the warld ken?
Jenny's a' weet, poor body;Jenny's seldom dry;She draigl't a' her petticoatie,Comin' thro' the rye.
While larks with little wingFann'd the pure air,Tasting the breathing spring,Forth I did fare:Gay the sun's golden eyePeep'd o'er the mountains high;'Such thy morn,' did I cry,'Phillis the fair!'In each bird's careless songGlad did I share;While yon wild flowers among,Chance led me there:Sweet to the opening day,Rosebuds bent the dewy spray;'Such thy bloom,' did I say,'Phillis the fair!'Down in a shady walk,Doves cooing were,I mark'd the cruel hawkCaught in a snare;So kind may Fortune be,Such make his destiny,He who would injure thee,Phillis the fair!
While larks with little wingFann'd the pure air,Tasting the breathing spring,Forth I did fare:Gay the sun's golden eyePeep'd o'er the mountains high;'Such thy morn,' did I cry,'Phillis the fair!'
In each bird's careless songGlad did I share;While yon wild flowers among,Chance led me there:Sweet to the opening day,Rosebuds bent the dewy spray;'Such thy bloom,' did I say,'Phillis the fair!'
Down in a shady walk,Doves cooing were,I mark'd the cruel hawkCaught in a snare;So kind may Fortune be,Such make his destiny,He who would injure thee,Phillis the fair!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;Ae fareweel, alas! for ever!Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.Who shall say that fortune grieves him,While the star of hope she leaves him?Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me;Dark despair around benights me.I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,Naething could resist my Nancy;But to see her was to love her;Love but her, and love for ever.Had we never loved sae kindly,Had we never loved sae blindly,Never met—or never parted,We had ne'er been broken-hearted.Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest!Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest!Thine be ilka joy and treasure,Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;Ae fareweel, alas! for ever!Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;Ae fareweel, alas! for ever!Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.Who shall say that fortune grieves him,While the star of hope she leaves him?Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me;Dark despair around benights me.
I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy,Naething could resist my Nancy;But to see her was to love her;Love but her, and love for ever.Had we never loved sae kindly,Had we never loved sae blindly,Never met—or never parted,We had ne'er been broken-hearted.
Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest!Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest!Thine be ilka joy and treasure,Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!Ae fond kiss, and then we sever;Ae fareweel, alas! for ever!Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!
Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,And fill it in a silver tassie;That I may drink, before I go,A service to my bonny lassie;The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry;The ship rides by the Berwick law,And I maun leave my bonny Mary.The trumpets sound, the banners fly,The glittering spears are ranked ready;The shouts o' war are heard afar,The battle closes thick and bloody;But it's not the roar o' sea or shoreWad make me langer wish to tarry;Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar—It's leaving thee, my bonny Mary.
Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,And fill it in a silver tassie;That I may drink, before I go,A service to my bonny lassie;The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry;The ship rides by the Berwick law,And I maun leave my bonny Mary.
The trumpets sound, the banners fly,The glittering spears are ranked ready;The shouts o' war are heard afar,The battle closes thick and bloody;But it's not the roar o' sea or shoreWad make me langer wish to tarry;Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar—It's leaving thee, my bonny Mary.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills;There daily I wander as noon rises high,My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;There oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea,The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear,I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.
How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills;There daily I wander as noon rises high,My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.
How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow;There oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea,The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.
Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes,Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.
My heart is sair, I daurna tell,My heart is sair for Somebody;I could wake a winter night,For the sake o' Somebody!Oh-hon! for Somebody!Oh-hey! for Somebody!I could range the world around,For the sake o' Somebody.Ye powers that smile on virtuous love,O, sweetly smile on Somebody!Frae ilka danger keep him free,And send me safe my Somebody.Oh-hon! for Somebody!Oh-hey! for Somebody!I wad do—what wad I not?For the sake o' Somebody!
My heart is sair, I daurna tell,My heart is sair for Somebody;I could wake a winter night,For the sake o' Somebody!Oh-hon! for Somebody!Oh-hey! for Somebody!I could range the world around,For the sake o' Somebody.
Ye powers that smile on virtuous love,O, sweetly smile on Somebody!Frae ilka danger keep him free,And send me safe my Somebody.Oh-hon! for Somebody!Oh-hey! for Somebody!I wad do—what wad I not?For the sake o' Somebody!
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad;O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad:Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad,O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad.But warily tent, when ye come to court me,And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee;Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see,And come as ye were na comin' to me.At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me,Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie:But steal me a blink o' your bonie black ee,Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me.Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me,And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee;But court na anither, tho' jokin' ye be,For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad;O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad:Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad,O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad.
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad;O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad:Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad,O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad.
But warily tent, when ye come to court me,And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee;Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see,And come as ye were na comin' to me.
At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me,Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie:But steal me a blink o' your bonie black ee,Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me.
Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me,And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee;But court na anither, tho' jokin' ye be,For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad;O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad:Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad,O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad.
The De'il cam fiddling thro' the town,And danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman;And ilka wife cry'd 'Auld Mahoun,We wish you luck o' your prize, man.We'll mak our maut, and brew our drink,We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man;And monie thanks to the muckle black De'ilThat danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.'There's threesome reels, and foursome reels,There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man;But the ae best dance that cam to our lan',Was—the De'il's awa wi' the Exciseman.We'll mak our maut, and brew our drink,We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man;And monie thanks to the muckle black De'ilThat danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.'
The De'il cam fiddling thro' the town,And danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman;And ilka wife cry'd 'Auld Mahoun,We wish you luck o' your prize, man.
We'll mak our maut, and brew our drink,We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man;And monie thanks to the muckle black De'ilThat danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.
'There's threesome reels, and foursome reels,There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man;But the ae best dance that cam to our lan',Was—the De'il's awa wi' the Exciseman.
We'll mak our maut, and brew our drink,We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man;And monie thanks to the muckle black De'ilThat danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.'
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks,Bonie lassie, artless lassie,Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks?Wilt thou be my dearie O?Now nature cleeds the flowery lea,And a' is young and sweet like thee;O wilt thou share its joys wi' me,And say thou'lt be my dearie O?Lassie wi' the lint-white locks...And when the welcome simmer-showerHas cheer'd ilk drooping little flower,We'll to the breathing woodbine bowerAt sultry noon, my dearie O.Lassie wi' the lint-white locks...When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray,The weary shearer's hameward way,Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray,And talk o' love, my dearie O.Lassie wi' the lint-white locks...And when the howling wintry blastDisturbs my lassie's midnight rest;Enclasped to my faithfu' breast,I'll comfort thee, my dearie O.Lassie wi' the lint-white locks,Bonie lassie, artless lassie,Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks?Wilt thou be my dearie O?
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks,Bonie lassie, artless lassie,Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks?Wilt thou be my dearie O?
Now nature cleeds the flowery lea,And a' is young and sweet like thee;O wilt thou share its joys wi' me,And say thou'lt be my dearie O?Lassie wi' the lint-white locks...
And when the welcome simmer-showerHas cheer'd ilk drooping little flower,We'll to the breathing woodbine bowerAt sultry noon, my dearie O.Lassie wi' the lint-white locks...
When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray,The weary shearer's hameward way,Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray,And talk o' love, my dearie O.Lassie wi' the lint-white locks...
And when the howling wintry blastDisturbs my lassie's midnight rest;Enclasped to my faithfu' breast,I'll comfort thee, my dearie O.Lassie wi' the lint-white locks,Bonie lassie, artless lassie,Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks?Wilt thou be my dearie O?
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,I dearly like the west,For there the bonie lassie lives,The lassie I lo'e best:There wild woods grow, and rivers row,And monie a hill between;But day and night my fancy's flightIs ever wi' my Jean.I see her in the dewy flowers,I see her sweet and fair:I hear her in the tunefu' birds,I hear her charm the air:There's not a bonie flower that springsBy fountain, shaw, or green;There's not a bonie bird that sings,But minds me o' my Jean.
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,I dearly like the west,For there the bonie lassie lives,The lassie I lo'e best:
There wild woods grow, and rivers row,And monie a hill between;But day and night my fancy's flightIs ever wi' my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,I see her sweet and fair:I hear her in the tunefu' birds,I hear her charm the air:There's not a bonie flower that springsBy fountain, shaw, or green;There's not a bonie bird that sings,But minds me o' my Jean.
O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut,And Rob and Allan cam to pree;Three blither hearts that lee-lang night,Ye wad na find in Christendie.We are na fou, we're no that fou,But just a drappie in our ee:The cock may craw, the day may daw,And aye we'll taste the barley bree.Here are we met, three merry boys,Three merry boys, I trow, are we;And monie a night we've merry been,And monie mae we hope to be!It is the moon, I ken her horn,That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie;She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,But by my sooth she'll wait a wee!Wha first shall rise to gang awa,A cuckold, coward loun is he!Wha first beside his chair shall fa',He is the King amang us three!We are na fou, we're no that fou,But just a drappie in our ee:The cock may craw, the day may daw,And aye we'll taste the barley bree.
O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut,And Rob and Allan cam to pree;Three blither hearts that lee-lang night,Ye wad na find in Christendie.
We are na fou, we're no that fou,But just a drappie in our ee:The cock may craw, the day may daw,And aye we'll taste the barley bree.
Here are we met, three merry boys,Three merry boys, I trow, are we;And monie a night we've merry been,And monie mae we hope to be!
It is the moon, I ken her horn,That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie;She shines sae bright to wyle us hame,But by my sooth she'll wait a wee!
Wha first shall rise to gang awa,A cuckold, coward loun is he!Wha first beside his chair shall fa',He is the King amang us three!
We are na fou, we're no that fou,But just a drappie in our ee:The cock may craw, the day may daw,And aye we'll taste the barley bree.
John Anderson my jo, John,When we were first acquent,Your locks were like the raven,Your bonie brow was brent;But now your brow is beld, John,Your locks are like the snaw;But blessings on your frosty pow,John Anderson my jo.John Anderson my jo, John,We clamb the hill thegither;And monie a canty day, John,We've had wi' ane anither:Now we maun totter down, John,But hand in hand we'll go,And sleep thegither at the foot,John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John,When we were first acquent,Your locks were like the raven,Your bonie brow was brent;But now your brow is beld, John,Your locks are like the snaw;But blessings on your frosty pow,John Anderson my jo.
John Anderson my jo, John,We clamb the hill thegither;And monie a canty day, John,We've had wi' ane anither:Now we maun totter down, John,But hand in hand we'll go,And sleep thegither at the foot,John Anderson my jo.
She is a winsome wee thing,She is a handsome wee thing,She is a bonie wee thing,This sweet wee wife o' mine.I never saw a fairer,I never lo'ed a dearer,And neist my heart I'll wear her,For fear my jewel tine.She is a winsome wee thing,She is a handsome wee thing,She is a bonie wee thing,This sweet wee wife o' mine.The warld's wrack, we share o't,The warstle and the care o't;Wi' her I'll blythely bear it,And think my lot divine.
She is a winsome wee thing,She is a handsome wee thing,She is a bonie wee thing,This sweet wee wife o' mine.
I never saw a fairer,I never lo'ed a dearer,And neist my heart I'll wear her,For fear my jewel tine.
She is a winsome wee thing,She is a handsome wee thing,She is a bonie wee thing,This sweet wee wife o' mine.
The warld's wrack, we share o't,The warstle and the care o't;Wi' her I'll blythely bear it,And think my lot divine.
Duncan Gray came here to woo,Ha, ha, the wooing o't,On blithe yule night when we were fou,Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Maggie coost her head fu' high,Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd;Ha, ha, the wooing o't,Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn;Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Time and chance are but a tide,Ha, ha, the wooing o't,Slighted love is sair to bide,Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,For a haughty hizzie die?She may gae to—France for me!Ha, ha, the wooing o't.How it comes let doctors tell,Ha, ha, the wooing o't,Meg grew sick—as he grew well,Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Something in her bosom wrings,For relief a sigh she brings;And O, her een, they spak sic things!Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Duncan was a lad o' grace,Ha, ha, the wooing o't,Maggie's was a piteous case,Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Duncan couldna be her death,Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;Now they're crouse and cantie baith!Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Duncan Gray came here to woo,Ha, ha, the wooing o't,On blithe yule night when we were fou,Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Maggie coost her head fu' high,Look'd asklent and unco skeigh,Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd;Ha, ha, the wooing o't,Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Duncan sigh'd baith out and in,Grat his een baith bleer't and blin',Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn;Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Time and chance are but a tide,Ha, ha, the wooing o't,Slighted love is sair to bide,Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,For a haughty hizzie die?She may gae to—France for me!Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
How it comes let doctors tell,Ha, ha, the wooing o't,Meg grew sick—as he grew well,Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Something in her bosom wrings,For relief a sigh she brings;And O, her een, they spak sic things!Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
Duncan was a lad o' grace,Ha, ha, the wooing o't,Maggie's was a piteous case,Ha, ha, the wooing o't.Duncan couldna be her death,Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath;Now they're crouse and cantie baith!Ha, ha, the wooing o't.
When o'er the hill the eastern starTells bughtin-time is near, my jo;And owsen frae the furrow'd fieldReturn sae dowf and wearie O;Down by the burn, where scented birksWi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,My ain kind dearie O.In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O,If thro' that glen I gaed to thee,My ain kind dearie O.Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,And I were ne'er sae wearie O,I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,My ain kind dearie O.The hunter lo'es the morning sun,To rouse the mountain deer, my jo;At noon the fisher seeks the glen,Along the burn to steer, my jo;Gie me the hour o' gloamin' grey,It maks my heart sae cheery O,To meet thee on the lea-rig,My ain kind dearie O.
When o'er the hill the eastern starTells bughtin-time is near, my jo;And owsen frae the furrow'd fieldReturn sae dowf and wearie O;Down by the burn, where scented birksWi' dew are hanging clear, my jo,I'll meet thee on the lea-rig,My ain kind dearie O.
In mirkest glen, at midnight hour,I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O,If thro' that glen I gaed to thee,My ain kind dearie O.Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild,And I were ne'er sae wearie O,I'd meet thee on the lea-rig,My ain kind dearie O.
The hunter lo'es the morning sun,To rouse the mountain deer, my jo;At noon the fisher seeks the glen,Along the burn to steer, my jo;Gie me the hour o' gloamin' grey,It maks my heart sae cheery O,To meet thee on the lea-rig,My ain kind dearie O.
From the white blossom'd sloe my dear Chloe requestedA sprig her fair breast to adorn,From the white blossom'd sloe my dear Chloe requested,A sprig her fair breast to adorn.No! By heav'n! I exclaimed, may I perish,If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn!When I show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry,She blushed like the dawning of morn,When I show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry,She blushed like the dawning of morn.Yes! I'll consent, she replied, if you promise,That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn.
From the white blossom'd sloe my dear Chloe requestedA sprig her fair breast to adorn,From the white blossom'd sloe my dear Chloe requested,A sprig her fair breast to adorn.No! By heav'n! I exclaimed, may I perish,If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn!
When I show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry,She blushed like the dawning of morn,When I show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry,She blushed like the dawning of morn.Yes! I'll consent, she replied, if you promise,That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn.
There was 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 plough'd 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 surpris'd them all.The sultry suns of Summer came,And he grew thick and strong,His head well-armed 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 headShow'd he began to fail.His colour sicken'd more and more,He faded into age;And then his enemies beganTo show their deadly rage.They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp,And cut him by the knee;And tied him fast upon the 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.They fillèd up a darksome pitWith water to the brim,They heavèd 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 used him worst of all,For he crush'd him between two stones.And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood,And drank 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,Tho' the tear were in her eye.Then let us toast John Barleycorn,Each man a glass in hand;And may his great prosperityNe'er fail in old Scotland!
There was 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 plough'd 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 surpris'd them all.
The sultry suns of Summer came,And he grew thick and strong,His head well-armed 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 headShow'd he began to fail.
His colour sicken'd more and more,He faded into age;And then his enemies beganTo show their deadly rage.
They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp,And cut him by the knee;And tied him fast upon the 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.
They fillèd up a darksome pitWith water to the brim,They heavèd 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 used him worst of all,For he crush'd him between two stones.
And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood,And drank 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,Tho' the tear were in her eye.
Then let us toast John Barleycorn,Each man a glass in hand;And may his great prosperityNe'er fail in old Scotland!
On the banks of Allan Water,When the sweet spring time did fall,Was the miller's lovely daughter,Fairest of them all.For his bride a soldier sought her,And a winning tongue had he,On the banks of Allan Water,None so gay as she.On the banks of Allan Water,When brown autumn spread his store,There I saw the miller's daughter,But she smiled no more.For the summer grief had brought her,And the soldier false was he,On the banks of Allan Water,None so sad as she.On the banks of Allan Water,When the winter snow fell fast,Still was seen the miller's daughter,Chilling blew the blast.But the miller's lovely daughter,Both from cold and care was free,On the banks of Allan Water,There a corse lay she.
On the banks of Allan Water,When the sweet spring time did fall,Was the miller's lovely daughter,Fairest of them all.For his bride a soldier sought her,And a winning tongue had he,On the banks of Allan Water,None so gay as she.
On the banks of Allan Water,When brown autumn spread his store,There I saw the miller's daughter,But she smiled no more.For the summer grief had brought her,And the soldier false was he,On the banks of Allan Water,None so sad as she.
On the banks of Allan Water,When the winter snow fell fast,Still was seen the miller's daughter,Chilling blew the blast.But the miller's lovely daughter,Both from cold and care was free,On the banks of Allan Water,There a corse lay she.
Dear is my little native vale,The ring-dove builds and murmurs there;Close by my cot she tells her taleTo every passing villager;The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,And shells his nuts at liberty.In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers,That breathe a gale of fragrance round,I charm the fairy-footed hoursWith my loved lute's romantic sound;Or crowns of living laurel weaveFor those that win the race at eve.The shepherd's horn at break of day,The ballet danced in twilight glade,The canzonet and roundelaySung in the silent greenwood shade:These simple joys, that never fail,Shall bind me to my native vale.
Dear is my little native vale,The ring-dove builds and murmurs there;Close by my cot she tells her taleTo every passing villager;The squirrel leaps from tree to tree,And shells his nuts at liberty.
In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers,That breathe a gale of fragrance round,I charm the fairy-footed hoursWith my loved lute's romantic sound;Or crowns of living laurel weaveFor those that win the race at eve.
The shepherd's horn at break of day,The ballet danced in twilight glade,The canzonet and roundelaySung in the silent greenwood shade:These simple joys, that never fail,Shall bind me to my native vale.
Mine be a cot beside the hill;A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;A willowy brook, that turns a mill,With many a fall, shall linger near.The swallow oft, beneath my thatch,Shall twitter near her clay-built nest;Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,And share my meal, a welcome guest.Around my ivied porch shall springEach fragrant flower that drinks the dew;And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing,In russet gown and apron blue.The village church beneath the trees,Where first our marriage-vows were given,With merry peals shall swell the breeze,And point with taper spire to heaven.
Mine be a cot beside the hill;A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;A willowy brook, that turns a mill,With many a fall, shall linger near.
The swallow oft, beneath my thatch,Shall twitter near her clay-built nest;Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall springEach fragrant flower that drinks the dew;And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing,In russet gown and apron blue.
The village church beneath the trees,Where first our marriage-vows were given,With merry peals shall swell the breeze,And point with taper spire to heaven.
The lawns were dry in Euston park;(Here Truth inspires my tale)The lonely footpath, still and dark,Led over hill and dale.Benighted was an ancient dame,And fearful haste she madeTo gain the vale of FakenhamAnd hail its willow shade.Her footsteps knew no idle stops,But followed faster still,And echoed to the darksome copseThat whispered on the hill;Where clamorous rooks, yet scarcely hushed,Bespoke a peopled shade,And many a wing the foliage brushed,And hovering circuits made.The dappled herd of grazing deer,That sought the shades by day,Now started from her path with fear,And gave the stranger way.Darker it grew; and darker fearsCame o'er her troubled mind—When now a short quick step she hearsCome patting close behind.She turned; it stopped; nought could she seeUpon the gloomy plain!But as she strove the sprite to flee,She heard the same again.Now terror seized her quaking frame,For, where the path was bare,The trotting Ghost kept on the sameShe muttered many a prayer.Yet once again, amidst her fright,She tried what sight could do;When through the cheating glooms of nightA monster stood in view.Regardless of whate'er she felt,It followed down the plain!She owned her sins, and down she kneltAnd said her prayers again.Then on she sped; and hope grew strong,The white park gate in view;Which pushing hard, so long it swungThat Ghost and all passed through.Loud fell the gate against the post!Her heart-strings like to crack;For much she feared the grisly GhostWould leap upon her back.Still on, pat, pat, the goblin went,As it had done before;Her strength and resolution spent,She fainted at the door.Out came her husband, much surprised,Out came her daughter dear;Good-natured souls! all unadvisedOf what they had to fear.The candle's gleam pierced through the night,Some short space o'er the green;And there the little trotting spriteDistinctly might be seen.An ass's foal had lost its damWithin the spacious park;And simple as the playful lambHad followed in the dark.No goblin he; no imp of sin;No crimes had ever known;They took the shaggy stranger in,And reared him as their own.His little hoofs would rattle roundUpon the cottage floor;The matron learned to love the soundThat frightened her before.A favourite the Ghost became,And 'twas his fate to thrive;And long he lived and spread his fame,And kept the joke alive.For many a laugh went through the vale;And some conviction too:Each thought some other goblin tale,Perhaps, was just as true.
The lawns were dry in Euston park;(Here Truth inspires my tale)The lonely footpath, still and dark,Led over hill and dale.
Benighted was an ancient dame,And fearful haste she madeTo gain the vale of FakenhamAnd hail its willow shade.
Her footsteps knew no idle stops,But followed faster still,And echoed to the darksome copseThat whispered on the hill;
Where clamorous rooks, yet scarcely hushed,Bespoke a peopled shade,And many a wing the foliage brushed,And hovering circuits made.
The dappled herd of grazing deer,That sought the shades by day,Now started from her path with fear,And gave the stranger way.
Darker it grew; and darker fearsCame o'er her troubled mind—When now a short quick step she hearsCome patting close behind.
She turned; it stopped; nought could she seeUpon the gloomy plain!But as she strove the sprite to flee,She heard the same again.
Now terror seized her quaking frame,For, where the path was bare,The trotting Ghost kept on the sameShe muttered many a prayer.
Yet once again, amidst her fright,She tried what sight could do;When through the cheating glooms of nightA monster stood in view.
Regardless of whate'er she felt,It followed down the plain!She owned her sins, and down she kneltAnd said her prayers again.
Then on she sped; and hope grew strong,The white park gate in view;Which pushing hard, so long it swungThat Ghost and all passed through.
Loud fell the gate against the post!Her heart-strings like to crack;For much she feared the grisly GhostWould leap upon her back.
Still on, pat, pat, the goblin went,As it had done before;Her strength and resolution spent,She fainted at the door.
Out came her husband, much surprised,Out came her daughter dear;Good-natured souls! all unadvisedOf what they had to fear.
The candle's gleam pierced through the night,Some short space o'er the green;And there the little trotting spriteDistinctly might be seen.
An ass's foal had lost its damWithin the spacious park;And simple as the playful lambHad followed in the dark.
No goblin he; no imp of sin;No crimes had ever known;They took the shaggy stranger in,And reared him as their own.
His little hoofs would rattle roundUpon the cottage floor;The matron learned to love the soundThat frightened her before.
A favourite the Ghost became,And 'twas his fate to thrive;And long he lived and spread his fame,And kept the joke alive.
For many a laugh went through the vale;And some conviction too:Each thought some other goblin tale,Perhaps, was just as true.