Green Grows the Rashes/The Lass o' Glenshee

by Anonymous

For other versions of this work, see The Lass o' Glenshee.

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THE LASS O' GLENSHEE.

On bonny day, when the heather was blooming,
 and the silent hill burn'd wi' the sore laden bee,
I met a fair maid as I hameward was riding,
 a herding her sheep on the hills o' Glenshee.
The rose in her cheek it was gem'd wi' a dimple,
 and blythe were the blinks o' her bonny black e'e
Her face so enchanting, so neat and so handsome,
 my heart soon belonged to the lass o' Glenshee.

I kiss'd and caress'd her and said my dear lassie,
 if you will but gang to St Johnstone wi' me,
There's nane of the fair shall set foot on the causey,
 with cleading mair fine than the lass o' Glenshee.
A carriage for pleasure ye shall hae to ride in
 and fouk shall Mem when they speak unto thee,
Servant ye shall hae for to do your bidden,
 I'll mak you my lady the lass o' Glenshee.

Mock me nae mair wi' your carriage to ride in,
 nor think that your grandeur I value a flee,
I would think mysel' happy in cottie o' plaiding,
 wi' an innocent herd on the hills o' Glenshee
Believe me dear lassie Caledonia's clear waters,
 may alter their course and run back frae the sea,
Her brave hardy sons may submit to be in fetters,
 but cease and believe not such baseness in me.

The Lark may forget to rise in the morning,
 the spring moy forget to revive on the lee,
But never will I while my senses govern me,
 forget to be kind to the lass o' Glenshee.
O let me alone for I'm sure I would blunder,
 and set a' the gentry a laughing at me,
They're book-taught in manner baith auld and young o' them,
 but we ken little o' that in the hills o' Glenshee

They would say look ye at him wi' his Highland lady,
 set up for a sale in a window so high,
Roll'd up like a witch in a hamely spun plaidie,
 and pointing towards the lass o' Glenshee.
Do not dream o' sic stories but come up behind me,
 ere Phœbus goes round my sweet bride thou shalt be,
This night in my arms I'll doat you sae kindly,
 she smil'd and consented, I took her wi' me.

Now years hae gane round since we busked thegither,
 and seasons have changed, but nae changes wi' me,
She's ay as gay as the fine summer weather,
 when Boreas blaws shrill on the hills o' Glenshee.
To meet wi' my Jeanie away I would venture,
 she's sweet as the echoes that ring o'er the lee,
She's spotless and pure us the robes in the winter,
 when laid out to bleach on the hills of Glenshee.