My Nanie's charming, sweet, an' young;
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, 0:
May ill befa' the flattering tongue
That wad beguile my Nanie, O.
Her face is fair, her heart is true,
As spotless as she's bonie, O:
The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew,
Nae purer is than Nanie, 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 Nanie, 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 Nanie, O.
Our auld Guidman delights to view
His sheep an' kye thrive bonie, O;
But I'm as blythe that hauds his pleugh,
An' has nae care but Nanie, O.
Come weel, come woe, I care na by,
I'll tak what Heav'n will sen' me, O ;
Nae ither care in life have I,
But live, an' love my Nanie, O.
Green grow the rashes, O;
Green grow the rashes, O; The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, Are spent amang the lasses, O!
THERE'S nought but care on ev'ry han',
In ev'ry hour that passes, O;
What signifies the life o' man,
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.
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, Q.
Green grow, &c.
But gie me a canny hour at e'en,
My arms about my dearie, O;
An' warly cares, an' warly men,
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!
Green grow, &c.
For you sae douse, ye sneer at this, Ye're nought but senseless asses, 0 :
The wisest man the warl' saw,
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.
Green grow, &c.
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, &c.
TUNE-'I HAD A HORSE, I HAD NAE MAIR.'
Now 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 hern 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!
TUNE-' PREPARE, MY DEAR BRETHREN, TO THE TAVERN LET'S FLY.'
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-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care.
The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow;
I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low;
But a club of good fellows, like those that are there,
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care.
Here passes the squire on his brother-his horse;
There centum per centum, the cit with his purse;
But see you the Crown how it waves in the air,
There a big-belly'd 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 proved it fair,
That the big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care.
I once was persuaded a venture to make ;
A letter inform'd 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,' a maxim laid down By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black
And, faith, I agree with th' old prig to a hair,
For a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of a care.
A STANZA ADDED IN A MASON LODGE.
Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow,
And honours masonic prepare for to throw ;
May every true brother of the compass and square
Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with care.
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