John Anderson, my jo, John,
When Nature first began
To try her cannie hand, John,
Her master-work was Man;
And you among them all, John,
So trig from top to toe,
She proved to be no journey-work,
John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquaint, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is bald, John, Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We climbed the hill together;
And many a happy day, John,
We've had with one anither.
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go ;
And sleep together at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.
TO CHARLES JAMES FOX.
Thou first of our orators, first of our wits,
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong,
No man with the half of them e'er went far wrong;
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright,
No man with the half of them e'er went quite right.
From a Poem ON A LADY'S BONNET.
Oh! would some power the giftie gi'e us,
To see ourselves as others see us!
WHISTLE O'ER THE LAVE' O'T.
First when Maggie was my care,
Heaven, I thought, was in her air;
Now we're married-spier2 no mair,
Whistle o'er the lave o't.
Meg was meek, and Meg was mild,
Bonnie Meg was Nature's child.—
Wiser men than me's beguiled-
Whistle o'er the lave o't.
TO THE UNCO GOOD.
O ye who are so good yoursel',
So pious and so holy,
Ye've naught to do but mark and tell
Your neighbours' faults and folly.
THIS IS NO MY AIN LASSIE.
I see a form, I see a face,
You well may with the fairest place ;-
It wants to me the witching grace,
The kind love that's in her eye.
MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING.
She is a winsome wee thing,
She is a handsome wee thing,
She is a bonnie wee thing-
This sweet wee wife of mine.
I never saw a fairer,
I never loved a dearer,
And next 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 bonnie wee thing,
This sweet wee wife of mine!
The world's wrack we share o't,
The wrastle and the care o't,
With her I'll blithely bear it,
And think my lot divine.
Chips from Dainty Davie.
Now rosy May comes in with flowers,
To deck her gay green spreading bowers,
When purple morning starts the hare
To steal upon her early fare.
When day, expiring in the west,
The curtain draws of Nature's rest.
Ye banks and braes and streams around
The Castle of Montgomery,
Green be your woods and fair
Your waters never drumlie!
There summer first unfolds her robes,
And there the longest tarry;
For there I took the last farewell
Of my sweet Highland Mary.
O pale, pale now those rosy lips,
I oft have kissed so fondly!
And closed for aye the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me so kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that loved me dearly;
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.
ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK.
Oh! stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay,
Nor quit for me the trembling spray,
Thy soothing, fond complaining.
Say, was thy little mate unkind,
And heard thee as the careless wind?
Oh, naught but love and sorrow joined
Such notes of woe could waken!
Thou tells of never-ending care,
Of speechless grief, and dark despair;
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair,
Or my poor heart is broken!
Of all the airts the wind can blow
I dearly love the west,
For there the bonnie lassie lives,
The lassie I love best;
There wild woods grow, and rivers flow,
And many a hill between ;
But day and night my fancy's flight
Is ever with my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair;
I hear her in the tuneful birds,
I hear her charm the air;
There's not a bonnie flower that springs
By fountain, wood, or green,
There's not a bonnie bird that sings
But minds me of my Jean.
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..
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 flowerets 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.
THE SELKIRK GRACE.
Some have meat, and cannot eat,
Some would eat that want it ;
We have meat, and we can eat,
And so the Lord be thankit.
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