At morn, at sunny noon, whene'er
I see this fair, this favourite flower,
My heart beats high, with wish sincere,
To wile it frae its bonnie bower!—
But oh! I fear to own its charms,
Or tear it frae its parent stem,
For should it wither in my arms,
What would revive my bonnie gem!
Awa'—ye coward thoughts, awa',—
That flower can never fade with me,
That frae the wint'ry winds that blaw
Round each neglected bud is free!
No; it shall only bloom more fair,
When cherish'd and ador'd by me,
And a' my joy, and a' my care,
This bonnie blushing flower shall be!
Draw the sword.
[Words by J. R. Planche. Music altered and arranged by G. Herbert Rodwell.]
Draw the sword, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland!
Over mountain and moor hath passed the war-sign:
The pibroch is pealing, pealing, pealing,
Who heeds not the summons is nae son o' thine.
The clans they are gath'ring, gath'ring, gath'ring,
The clans they are gath'ring by loch and by lea;
The banners they are flying, flying, flying,
The banners they are flying that lead to victory.
Draw the sword, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland!
Charge as ye charged in the days o' langsyne;
Sound to the onset, the onset, the onset,
He who but falters is nae son o' thine.
Sheath the sword, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland!
Sheath the sword, Scotland, for dimmed is its shine;
Thy foemen are fleeing, fleeing, fleeing,
And wha kens nae mercy is nae son o' thine!
The struggle is over, over, over,
The struggle is over!—the victory won!
There are tears for the fallen, the fallen, the fallen,
And glory for all who their duty have done!
Sheath the sword, Scotland, Scotland, Scotland!
With thy loved thistle new laurels entwine;
Time shall ne'er part them, part them, part them,
But hand down the garland to each son o' thine.
The Ploughman
[This is an old song, furbished up a little by Burns for Johnson's Museum.]
The ploughman he's a bonnie lad,
His mind is ever true, jo,
His garters knit below his knee,
His bonnet it is blue, jo.
Then up wi't a', my ploughman lad,
And hey, my merry ploughman;
Of a' the trades that I do ken,
Commend me to the ploughman.
My ploughman he comes hame at e'en,
He's aften wat and weary:
Cast aff the wat, put on the dry,
And gae to bed, my dearie.
Then up wi't a', &c.
I will wash my ploughman's hose,
And I will dress his o'erlay.
I will mak' my ploughman's bed,
And cheer him late and early.
Then up wi't a', &c.
I ha'e been east, I ha'e been west,
I ha'e been at St. Johnston,
The bonniest sight that e'er I saw
Was the ploughman laddie dancin'.
Then up wi't a', &c.
Snaw-white stockings on his legs,
And siller buckles glancin';
A gude blue bannet on his head,
And Oh! but he was handsome.
Then up wi't a', &c.
Sweet Susan.
[Tune, "Leader-haughs."]
The morn was fair, saft was the air,
All nature's sweets were springing;
The buds did bow with silver dew,
Ten thousand birds were singing:
When on the bent, with blythe content,
Young Jamie sang his marrow,
Nae bonnier lass e'er trod the grass
On Leader-haughs and Yarrow.
