Part 11

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.

“Here this night if ye remain”— “I’ll remain,” quo’ Findlay; “I dread ye’ll learn the gate again;” “Indeed will I,” quo’ Findlay. “What may pass within this bower”— “Let it pass,” quo’ Findlay; “Ye maun conceal till your last hour:” “Indeed will I,” quo’ Findlay.

1784

Remorse: A Fragment

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish Beyond comparison the worst are those By our own folly, or our guilt brought on: In ev’ry other circumstance, the mind Has this to say, “It was no deed of mine:” But, when to all the evil of misfortune This sting is added, “Blame thy foolish self!” Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse, The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt— Of guilt, perhaps, when we’ve involved others, The young, the innocent, who fondly lov’d us; Nay more, that very love their cause of ruin! O burning hell! in all thy store of torments There’s not a keener lash! Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, Can reason down its agonizing throbs; And, after proper purpose of amendment, Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace? O happy, happy, enviable man! O glorious magnanimity of soul!

Epitaph On Wm. Hood, Senr., In Tarbolton

Here Souter Hood in death does sleep; To hell if he’s gane thither, Satan, gie him thy gear to keep; He’ll haud it weel thegither.

Epitaph On James Grieve, Laird Of Boghead, Tarbolton

Here lies Boghead amang the dead In hopes to get salvation; But if such as he in Heav’n may be, Then welcome, hail! damnation.

Epitaph On My Own Friend And My Father’s Friend, Wm. Muir In Tarbolton Mill

An honest man here lies at rest As e’er God with his image blest; The friend of man, the friend of truth, The friend of age, and guide of youth: Few hearts like his, with virtue warm’d, Few heads with knowledge so informed: If there’s another world, he lives in bliss; If there is none, he made the best of this.

Epitaph On My Ever Honoured Father