GREEN GROW THE RASHES, O. ROBERT BURNS. CHORUS. Green grow the rashes, O! There's nought but care on ev'ry han', The warly race may riches chase, But gie me a canny hour at e'en, For you sae douce, ye sneer at this, He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears [Upon some old fragments, now frequently printed, Burns founded this very charming and popular song. The sentiment of the last verse though not new, is as Mr. Cunningham says, "the richest incense any poet ever offered at the shrine of beauty."] THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. ROBERT BURNS. CHORUS. Bonnie lassie, will ye go, To the birks of Aberfeldy? Now simmer blinks on flowery braes, The little birdies blithely sing, While o'er their heads the hazels hing, In the birks of Aberfeldy. The braes ascend, like lofty wa's, The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, Let Fortune's gifts at random flee, Bonnie lassie, will ye go, Will ye go, will ye go; To the birks of Aberfeldy ? [" I composed these stanzas standing under the falls of Aberfeldy, at, or near, Moness," (in Perthshire).-Burns. The chorus of the song is old.] THE DAY RETURNS. ROBERT BURNS. The day returns, my bosom burns, Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. While day and night can bring delight, Comes in between to make us part, It breaks my bliss-it breaks my heart. [The seventh of November was the anniversary of the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Riddell, of Friars-Carse; and these verses were composed in compliment to the day. "One of the most tolerable things I have done in the way of song, is two stanzas I made to an air for a musical gentleman of my acquaintance, composed for the anniversary of his wedding day."-BURNS.] WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR. ROBERT BURNS. '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 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 dread ye'll learn the gate again;' 'Ye maun conceal till your last hour;' Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. |