My Nanie’s charming, sweet, an’ young;
     Nae artfu’ wiles to win ye, O: 
     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 hands 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.

Song—­Green Grow The Rashes

     A Fragment

     Chor.—­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 war’ly 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, &c.

     But gie me a cannie hour at e’en,
     My arms about my dearie, O;
     An’ war’ly cares, an’ war’ly men,
     May a’ gae tapsalteerie, O! 
     Green grow, &c.

     For you sae douce, ye sneer at this;
     Ye’re nought but senseless asses, O: 
     The wisest man the warl’ e’er 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 try’d on man,
     An’ then she made the lasses, O.
     Green grow, &c.

Song—­Wha Is That At My Bower-Door

     Tune—­“Lass, an I come near thee.”

     “Wha is that at my bower-door?”
     “O wha is it but Findlay!”
     “Then gae your gate, ye’se nae be here:” 
     “Indeed maun I,” quo’ Findlay;
     “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.