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There, watching high the least alarms,

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar
Like some bold vetran, grey in arms,

And marked with many a seamy scar:
The pond'rous wall and massy bar,

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock,
Have oft withstood assailing war,

And oft repelled th' invader's shock.

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With awe-struck thought and pitying tears,

I view that noble, stately dome
Where Scotia's kings of other years,

Famed heroes, had their royal home:
Alas, how changed the times to come!

Their royal name low in the dust!
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam!

Tho' rigid Law cries out, “ 'T was just !"

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Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,

Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
Thro’ hostile ranks and ruined gaps

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore:
Ev'n I, who sing in rustic lore,

Haply my sires have left their shed,
And faced grim Danger's loudest roar,

Bold-following where your fathers led!

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Edina, Scotia's darling seat!

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs,
Where once, beneath a monarch's feet,

Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs.
From marking wildly-scatt'red flow'rs,

As on the banks of Ayr I strayed,
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours,

I shelter in thy honoured shade.

1786.

1787.

GREEN GROW THE RASHES, O
CHORUS.—Green grow the rashes, O;

Green grow the rashes, 0;
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend

Are spent among the lasses, O!

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There's naught but care on ev'ry han'.

In every hour that passes, ();
What signifies the life o' man

An' 't were na for the lasses, O?

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.

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Of a' the airts the wind can blaw,

I dearly like the west,
For there the bonie lassie lives,

The lassie I lo'e best :
There wild woods grow, and rivers row,

And monie a hill between;
But day and night my fancy's flight

Is ever wi' my Jean.

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I see her in the dewy flowers,

I see her sweet and fair;
I hear her in the tunefu' birds,

I hear her charm the air:

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There's not a bonie flower that springs

By fountain, shaw, or green,
There's not a bonie bird that sings,

But minds me o' my Jean.
1788.

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1790.

AULD LANG SYNE

CHORUS.-For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

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And there's a hand, my trusty fiere,

And gie's a hand o' thine ;
And we 'll tak a right guid-willie waught,

For auld lang syne.
1788?

1796.

TAM GLEN

My heart is a-breaking, dear Tittie,

Some counsel unto me come len';
To anger them a' is a pity,

But what will I do wi' Tam Glen?

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I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow

In poortith I might mak a fen’; What care I in riches to wallow,

If I mauna marry Tam Glen?

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There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller :

“Guid day to you”-brute !—he comes ben; He brags and he blaws o' his siller,

But when will he dance like Tam Glen?

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Yestreen at the valentines' dealing,

My heart to my mou gied a sten; For thrice I drew ane without failing,

And thrice it was written “Tam Glen."

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The last Halloween I was waukin

My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken; His likeness came up the house staukin,

And the very gray breeks o' Tam Glen!

Come, counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry;

I'll gie you my bonie black hen, Gif ye will advise me to marry

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen.

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1789.

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO

John Anderson, my jo, John,

When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven,

Your bonie brow was brent:

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When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors neebors meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate,
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses
For honest men and bonie lasses).
O Tam, had'st thou but been sae wise
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum,
That frae November till October
Ae market-day thou was nae sober;
That ilka melder wi' the miller
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;

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