GREEN GROW THE RASHES.

TUNE

·Green grow the Rashes.

THERE'S nought but care on every hand,

In every hour that passes, 0:
What signifies the life o' man,
And 'twere na for the lasses, O.

CHORUS.

Green grow the rashes, O!

Green grow the rashes, O!

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend
Are spent amang the lasses, O.

The warly race may riches chase,

worldly

And riches still may fly them, 0;
And though at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

Gie me a canny hour at e'en,

My arms about my dearie, O; And warly cares, and warly men, May a' gae tapsalteerie, O.

happy

topsy-turvy

For you sae douce ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses, 0:
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,

He dearly loved the lasses, O.

grave

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, 0:
Her 'prentice hand she tried on man,
And then she made the lasses, O.1

August.

THE CURE FOR ALL CARE.

TUNE- Prepare, my dear Brethren, to the Tavern let's fly.

Burns had joined a fraternity of freemasons who met in a small public-house in the village of Torbolton. His generous and social temper disposed him to

1 In this song Burns made an improvement upon an ancient homely ditty to the same air. It has been pointed out that the last admirable verse is formed upon a conceit, which was put into print long before the days of Burns, in a comedy entitled Cupid's Whirligig, published in 1607. The passage in the comedy is an apostrophe to the female sex, as follows:

"Oh woman

since we

Were made before ye, should we not love and

Admire ye as the last, and therefore perfect'st work
Of Nature? Man was made when Nature was
But an apprentice, but woman when she

Was a skilful mistress of her art."

It might be presumed that Burns had no chance of seeing the old play; but it appears that the passage has been transferred into a book which was not very scarce in his time- namely, The British Muse, a Collection of Thoughts, by Thomas Hayward, Gent. 4 vols. London, 1738. 4

VOL. I.

take a warm part in their festive proceedings; and his witty intelligent conversation made him speedily ascend to a leading-place in the lodge. Any bacchanalianism which appears in his verses was not from the heart, as his ravings on amatory subjects usually are. He was here merely the literary medium of a recognized common sentiment.

No churchman am I for to rail and to write,
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight,
No sly man of business contriving a snare;
For a big-bellied bottle's the whole of my care.

The peer
I don't envy, I give him his bow;
I scorn not the peasant, though ever so low;
But a club of good fellows, like those that are

here,

And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.

Here passes the squire on his brother

horse;

his

There centum per centum, the cit with his

purse;

But see you The Crown, how it waves in the

air!

There a big-bellied bottle still eases my care.

The wife of my bosom, alas! she did die;
For sweet consolation to church I did fly;
I found that old Solomon provèd it fair,
That a big-bellied bottle's a cure for all care.

I once was persuaded a venture to make;
A letter informed me that all was to wreck;
But the pursy old landlord just waddled up
stairs,

With a glorious bottle that ended my cares.

'Life's cares, they are comforts' 1.

laid down

a maxim

By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown;

And, faith, I agree with th' old prig to a hair; For a big-bellied bottle's a heaven of care.

ADDED IN A MASON LODGE.

THEN fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow, And honors masonic prepare for to throw; May every true brother of th' compass

square

and

Have a big-bellied bottle when harassed with

care!

"THOUGH CRUEL FATE SHOULD BID US

ᏢᎪᎡᎢ ."

The four pieces which follow are extracted from Burns's Commonplace-Book. They are inserted be

1 Young.

tween entries for May and August [1784?], but possibly may be the production of a period somewhat later.

THOUGH cruel Fate should bid us part,
As far's the Pole and Line,

Her dear idea round my heart
Should tenderly entwine.

Though mountains frown and deserts howl,

And oceans roar between;

Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,

I still would love my Jean.1

ONE night as I did wander,
When corn begins to shoot,

I sat me down to ponder,
Upon an auld tree-root.

Auld Ayr ran by before me,
And bickered to the seas,

A cushat crooded o'er me,

That echoed through the braes.

raced

wood-pigeon

1 The allusion is to Jean Armour, afterwards the wife of the poet.