And when the welcome simmer-shower
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower,
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower
At sultry noon, my Dearie O.
Lassie wi', &c.

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray,
The weary shearer's hameward way,
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray,
And talk o' love, my Dearie O.
Lassie wi', &c.

And when the howling wintry blast
Disturbs my Lassie's midnight rest;
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast,
I'll comfort thee, my Dearie O.
Lassie wi', &c.

CONTENTED WI' LITTLE.

TUNE-"Lumps o' Pudding."

CONTENTED wi' little, and cantie wi' mair,
Whene'er I forgather wi' Sorrow and Care,

I gie them a skelp as they're creepin' alang,
Wi' a cog o' gude swats, and an auld Scottish sang.

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought; But man is a soger, and life is a faught:

My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch, my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch.

And

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa',
A night o' gude fellowship sowthers it a';
When at the blythe end of our journey at last,
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past?

Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way,
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae :
Come ease, or come travail; come pleasure or pain,
My warst word is - "Welcome, and welcome again!"

MY NANNIE'S AWA.

TUNE-"There'll never be peace till Jamie comes_hame."

Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays,
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes,
While birds warble welcomes in ilka green shaw;
But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa.

The snaw-drop and primrose our woodlands adorn,
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn :

They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw,
They mind me o' Nannie

my Nannie's awa.

Thou laverock that springs frae the dews o' the lawn,
The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn,

And thou, yellow mavis, that hails the night-fa',
Gie over for pity—my Nannie's awa.

Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow and gray, And soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay; The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, Alane can delight me now Nannie's awa.

1795.

FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT.

Is there, for honest poverty,

That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,

We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,

Our toils obscure, an' a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp;
The man's the gowd for a' that.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden-grey, an' a' that;

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man for a' that.

For a' that, an' a' that,

Their tinsel show, an' a' that:
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is King o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,

Wha struts, and stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:

For a' that, an' a' that,

His riband, star, an' a' that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith, he mauna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,

Their dignities, an' a' that,

The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that),

That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that.

For a' that, an' a' that,

It's coming yet, for a' that,
That man to man, the warld o’er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.

April, 1795.

THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS.

DOES haughty Gaul invasion threat?
Then let the louns beware, Sir,
There's Wooden Walls upon our seas,
And Volunteers on shore, Sir.

The Nith shall run to Corsincon,

And Criffel sink in Solway, Ere we permit a foreign foe On British ground to rally!

Fal de ral, &c.

O let us not like snarling curs
In wrangling be divided;
Till, slap! come in an unco loun

And wi' a rung decide it.
Be Britain still to Britain true,
Amang oursels united;

For never but by British hands
Maun British wrangs be righted!
Fal de ral, &c.

The Kettle o' the Kirk and State,
Perhaps a clout may fail in't;
But deil a foreign tinkler loun
Shall ever ca' a nail in't.

Our Fathers' bluid the Kettle bought,
And wha wad dare to spoil it;

By heaven, the sacrilegious dog
Shall fuel be to boil it.

Fal de ral, &c.

The wretch that wad a tyrant own,

And the wretch his true-born brother, Who would set the Mob aboon the Throne, May they be damned together!