Green grow the Rashes

My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young:
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O:
May ill befa' the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nannie, O!

Her face is fair, her heart is true,
As spotless as she's bonnie, O:
The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew,
Nae purer is than Nannie, O.

A country lad is my degree,

An' few there be that ken me, O; But what care I how few they be, I'm welcome aye to Nannie, O.

My riches a's my penny-fee,

An' I maun guide it cannie, O; But warl's gear ne'er troubles me, My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O.

Our auld guidman delights to view
His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O;
But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh,
An' has nae care but Nannie, O.

Come weel, come woe, I care na by,

I'll tak what Heav'n will send me, O;

Nae ither care in life have I,

But live, an' love my Nannie, O.

Green grow the Rashes

HERE'S nought but care on ev'ry han',

Ti ev'ry hour that passes, O;

What signifies the life o' man,

An' '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,
An' riches still may fly them, O;
An' tho' at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.
Green grow, etc.

But gie me a cannie hour at e'en,
My arms about my dearie, O;
An' warly cares, an' warly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!
Green grow, etc.

For you sae douce wha sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O:
The wisest man the warl' saw,

He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.
Green grow, etc.

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O
Her 'prentice han' she tried on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.
Green grow, etc.

"Wha is that at my Bower Door?"

HA is that at my bower door?"

"WHA

"O wha is it but Findlay!"

"Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here!"

"Indeed maun I," quo' Findlay.

O Leave Novels

"What mak ye sae like a thief?"
"O come and see," quo' Findlay ;
"Before the morn ye'll work mischief;"
"Indeed will I," quo' Findlay.

"Gif I rise and let you in;"

"Let me in," quo' Findlay; "Ye'll keep me waukin' wi' your din;" "Indeed will I," quo' Findlay. "In my bower if ye should stay;" "Let me stay," quo' Findlay; "I fear ye'll bide till break o' day;" "Indeed will I," quo' Findlay.

"Here this night if ye remain;"
"I'll remain," quo' Findlay;

"I dread ye'll learn the gate again;"
"Indeed will I," quo' Findlay.
"What may pass within this bower".
"Let it pass," quo' Findlay;

"Ye maun conceal till your last hour;" "Indeed will I," quo' Findlay,

O Leave Novels

LEAVE novels, ye Mauchline belles,
Ye're safer at your spinning wheel;
Such witching books are baited hooks
For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel.

Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons,
They make your youthful fancies reel;
They heat your brains, and fire your veins,
And then you're prey for Rob Mossgiel.
Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung;
A heart that warmly seems to feel;
That feeling heart but acts a part,
'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel.

The frank address, the soft caress,

Are worse than poison'd darts of steel;
The frank address, and politesse,

Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel.

The Belles of Mauchline

TUNE-"Bonnie Dundee."

IN Mauchline there dwells six proper young belles,

I'

The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a', Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a':

Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine,

Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw: There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton, But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'.

My Jean

HO' cruel Fate should bid us part,

TH

As far's the Pole and Line;

Her dear idea round my heart

Should tenderly entwine.

Tho' mountains frown and deserts howl,

And oceans roar between ;

Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,

I still would love my Jean.

TH

Rantin', Rovin' Robin

Rantin', Rovin' Robin

TUNE-"Dainty Davie."

HERE was a lad was born in Kyle,
But whatna day o' whatna style,
I doubt it's hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi' Robin.

CHORUS.

Robin was a rovin' Boy,

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin' ;
Robin was a rovin' Boy,

Rantin', rovin' Robin!

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane
Was five-and-twenty days begun,
'Twas then a blast o' Janwar win'
Blew hansel in on Robin.

The gossip keekit in his loof,

Quo' scho, "Wha lives will see the proof,
This waly boy will be nae coof,

I think we'll ca' him Robin."

"He'll hae misfortunes great and sma',

But aye a heart aboon them a';

He'll be a credit till us a',

We'll a' be proud o' Robin.”

"But sure as three times three mak nine,

I see by ilka score and line,

This chap will dearly like our kin',

So leeze me on thee, Robin."

"Guid faith!" quo' scho, "I doubt you, Sir,

Ye gar the lasses lie aspar,

But twenty fauts ye may hae waur,

So blessings on thee, Robin !"