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Thinks I to myself, thinks I,
State jugglers now, good bye,
No longer will slaves,
Be govern'd by knaves,

Thinks I to myself, thinks I,

GREEN grow the rashes, O!

Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e're I spend,

Are spent among the lasses, O!
There's nought but care on ev'ry han',
In every hour that passes,

0! What signifies the life o' man, An'twere na for the lasess, O!

Green grow, &c. The warly race may riches chase,

And riches still may fly them, o ! An' tho' at last they catch them fast, Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O!

Green grow, &. Gie me a canny hour at e'en,

My arms about my dearie, o ! An' warly cares, an' warly men, May a' gae tapsalteerie, o !

Green grow, &c. For you sae douse, ye sneer at this,

Ye're nought but senseless asses, O ! The wisest man the world e'er saw He dearly lov'd the lasses, O!

Green grow, &c. Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears

Her noblest work she classes, O! Her 'prentice han' she tried on man, And then she made the lasses, O!

Green grow, &c.


Again the balmy zephyr blows,

Fresh verdure decks the grove,
Each bird with vernal rapture glows,

And tunes his notes to love.
Ye gentle warblers hither fly,

And shun the noontide heat ;
My shrubs a cooling shade supply,

My groves a safe retreat.


How happy could I be with either,

Were t'other dear charmer away ;
But while you thus teaze me together,

To neither one word can I say.


I KNEW by the smoke that so greasefully curl'd,

From a kitchen below that a cook-shop was near, And I said if a gorge’s to be found in the world, The man that is hungry might hope for it here.

Ev'ry plate was at rest,
And I heard not a sound,
But the knives and forks rattling,

Sweet music for me.
And here in this snug little box would I sit,

With a joint that was lovely to nose and to view,
With a sirloin of beef, a turkey and chine,
How bless'd could I live, and how calm could I dine.

Ev'ry plate, &c.

By the side of yon duștman whose black muzzles dip,

In the gush of the gravy so sweet to recline, And to know as I gobbl'd it down with my lip, That it ne'er had been gobbled by any but mine.

Ev'ry plate, &c.

DEEPLY still, without a motion,

Lies the bosom of the deep ;
While each breeze that roams the ocean,

On its surface seems to sleep ;
Scarcely swells a single wave,
All is silent as the grave.
But heaven grows brighter,

The clouds part asunder,
Loud murmurs the sea breeze

That slumber'd before ;
The ship spreads her pinions,

The billows break under
Her prow as she passes,

But, lo! 'tis the shore.

Love's flowery fetters wearing,
And pleas'd their burden bearing,

I ask not to be free ;
For, ah! to doating lovers
Their very chain discovers

More joys than liberty.
Tho'charms of form or feature
Must fade in course of nature,

The heart retains its bloom ;
And, like the rose when dying,
In dusty atoms flying,

Štrikes on the wind perfume,


Whilst with village maids I stray,
Sweetly wears the joyous day;
Cheerful glows my artless breast,
Mild content the constant guest.


'Twas in the merry month of May,

When bees from flower to flower did hum ;
Soldiers through the town march'd gay,

The village flew to the sound of the drum
From windows lasses look'd a score,
Neighbours met at every door ;
Sergeant twirl'd his sash and story,
And talk'd of wounds, honour, and glory.

'Twas in the merry month, &c. Roger swore he'd leave his plough,

His team and tillage, all, by gum!
Of a country life he'd had enow,-

He'd leave it all and follow the drum.
He'd leave his thrashing in the barn,
To thrash his foes right soon he'd learn ;
With sword in hand

he would not parley, But thrash his foes instead of the barley.

'Twas in the merry month, &c. The cobler he threw by his awl,

When all were glad, he'd ne'er be glum, But quick attend to glory's call,

And like a man follow the drum. No more at home he'd be a slave, But take his seat amid the brave; In battle's seat none should be prouder, 'Stead balls of wax he'd have balls of powder.

'Twas in the merry month, &c.

The tailor he got off his knees,

And to the ranks did boldly come ;
He said he ne'er would sit at his ease,

But follow the rest, and follow the drum.
How he'd leather the foes, good Lord !
When he'd a bodkin for a sword,
The French should find he didn't wheedle,
When he'd a spear instead of a needle.

'Twas in the merry month, &c. Three old women-the first was lame,

The second was blind, and the third nigh dumb; To stay behind was a burning shame,

They'd follow the men, and follow the drum!
Our wills are good, but lack-a-day,

To catch the soldiers we will try for it;
For, where there's a will, there's always a way,
We'll walk a mile or two, if we die for it.

'Twas in the merry month, &c.



Each sorrow repelling,

Once more in my breast,
Shall peace make her dwelling,

And joy be the guest.
This heart been a stranger,

To peace and repose,
Still fancies new danger,

Still dreads new repose.
Though fate long has bound us,

In sorrow and night ;
Now morning breaks around us,

We start at its light.

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