I lock’d her in my fond embrace;
     Her heart was beating rarely: 
     My blessings on that happy place,
     Amang the rigs o’ barley! 
     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. 
     Corn rigs, an’ barley rigs, &c.

     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. 
     Corn rigs, an’ barley rigs, &c.

Song Composed In August

     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!

Song

     Tune—­“My Nanie, O.”

     Behind yon hills where Lugar flows,
     ‘Mang moors an’ mosses many, O,
     The wintry sun the day has clos’d,
     And I’ll awa to Nanie, O.

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