My Father was a Farmer

TUNE-" The Weaver and his Shuttle, O."

Y father was

MY
My border, O,

a farmer upon the Carrick

And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O; He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er

a farthing, O,

For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O.

Then out into the world my course I did determine, O;

Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O:

My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my education, O;

Resolv'd was I, at least to try, to mend my situation, O.

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted Fortune's favour, O;

Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, O:

Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd; sometimes by friends forsaken, O;

And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O.

Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, with Fortune's vain delusion, O,

I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion, 0:

The past was bad, and the future hid; its good or ill untried, O;

But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would enjoy it, O.

My Father was a Farmer

No help, nor hope, nor view had I, nor person to befriend me, O;

So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sustain me, 0:

To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early, O;

For one, he said, to labour bred, was a match for Fortune fairly, O.

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, O,

Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber, O.

No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow, O;

I live to-day as well's I may, regardless of tomorrow, O.

But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in a palace, O,

Tho' Fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice, O:

I make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can make it farther, O;

But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O.

When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money, O,

Some unforeseen misfortune comes generally upon me, 0:

Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my goodnatur'd folly, O;

But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be melancholy, O.

All you who follow wealth and power, with unremitting ardour, O,

The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther, O.

Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O,

A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefer before you, O.

The Rigs o' Barley

TUNE-"Corn rigs are bonnie."

I was a Lammas night,
T was upon a Lammas night,

Beneath the moon's unclouded light,
I held awa to Annie:

The time flew by, wi' tentless heed,
Till 'tween the late and early,
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed
To see me thro' the barley.

CHORUS.

Corn rigs, an' barley rigs,

An' corn rigs are bonnie:
I'll ne'er forget that happy night,
Amang the rigs wi' Annie.

The sky was blue, the wind was still,
The moon was shining clearly;
I set her down, wi' right good will,
Amang the rigs o' barley;

I ken't her heart was a' my ain;
I lov'd her most sincerely;
I kiss'd her owre and owre again,
Amang the rigs o' barley.

I lock'd her in my fond embrace;
Her heart was beating rarely;
My blessings on that happy place,
Amang the rigs o' barley!

Now Westlin Winds

But by the moon and stars so bright,
That shone that hour so clearly!
She aye shall bless that happy night
Amang the rigs o' barley.

I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear;
I hae been merry drinking;
I hae been joyfu' gath'rin' gear;
I hae been happy thinking:
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw,
Tho' three times doubl'd fairly,
That happy night was worth them a',
Amang the rigs o' barley.

N

Now Westlin Winds

TUNE-"I had a horse, I had nae mair."

OW westlin winds and slaught'ring guns
Bring autumn's pleasant weather;

The moorcock springs, on whirring wings,
Amang the blooming heather:

Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain,

Delights the weary farmer;

And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night To muse upon my charmer.

The partridge loves the fruitful fells;
The plover loves the mountains;
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells;
The soaring her'n the fountains:
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves,
The path of man to shun it;

The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush,
The spreading thorn the linnet.

Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find,

The savage and the tender;

Some social join, and leagues combine;

Some solitary wander;

Avaunt, away! the cruel sway,

Tyrannic man's dominion;

The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry,
The flutt'ring, gory pinion!

But, Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear,
Thick flies the skimming swallow;
The sky is blue, the fields in view,
All fading-green and yellow:
Come let us stray our gladsome way,
And view the charms of Nature;
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn,
And ev'ry happy creature.

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk,
Till the silent moon shine clearly;
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest,
Swear how I love thee dearly:
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs,
Not Autumn to the farmer,
So dear can be, as thou to me,
My fair, my lovely charmer!

My Nannie, O

B

EHIND yon hills where Lugar flows,
'Mang moors an' mosses many, O,
The wintry sun the day has clos'd,
And I'll awa to Nannie, O.

The westlin wind blaws loud an' shrill;
The night's baith mirk and rainy, O:
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal,
An' owre the hill to Nannie, O.