Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw,
Plashy sleets and beating rain!
Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw,
Drifting o'er the frozen plain.
When the shades of evening creep
O'er the day's fair, gladsome ee,
Sound and safely may he sleep,
Sweetly blythe his waukening be!
He will think on her he loves,
Fondly he'll repeat her name;
For where'er he distant roves,
Jockey's heart is still at hame.

JOHN ANDERSON.
TUNE-John Anderson my Jo.
JOHN ANDERSON my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie 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 mony 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 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 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 show'rs 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 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 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 cudgell'd him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

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 farther 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 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 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 posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

KENMURE'S ON AND AWA.

TUNE-Oh Kenmure's on and awa, Willie.

Он Kenmure's on and awa, Willie !
Oh Kenmure's on and awa!
And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord
That ever Galloway saw.

Success to Kenmure's band, Willie !
Success to Kenmure's band;
There's no a heart that fears a Whig,
That rides by Kenmure's hand.

Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie !
Here's Kenmure's health in wine;
There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude
Nor yet o' Gordon's line.

Oh Kenmure's lads are men, Willie !
Oh Kenmure's lads are men;

Their hearts and swords are metal true-
And that their faes shall ken.

They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie !
They'll live or die wi' fame;
But soon, wi' sounding victorie,
May Kenmure's lord come hame.

Here's him that's far awa, Willie!
Here's him that's far awa!

And here's the flower that I love best-
The rose that's like the snaw!

LADY MARY ANN.

TUNE-Craigtown's growing.

Он, Lady Mary Ann looked o'er the castle wa';

She saw three bonnie boys playing at the ba'; The youngest he was the flower amang them a'

My bonnie laddie's young, but he's growin' yet.

Oh father! oh father! an ye think it fit, We'll send him a year to the college yet. We'll sew a green ribbon round about his hat, And that will let them ken he's to marry yet.

Lady Mary Ann was a flower i' the dew,

Sweet was its smell, and bonnie was its hue; And the langer it blossom'd the sweeter it grew :

For the lily in the bud will be bonnier yet.