John Anderson my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John,

I hae seen the hairst o’ Rettie,… And twa—three aff the throne. I’ve heard o sax and seven weeks The hairsters girn and groan. But wi’ a covie Willie Rae

Oh wert thou in the cauld blast, On yonder lea, on yonder lea, My plaidie to the angry airt, I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter the… Or did misfortune’s bitter storms

WAE worth thy power, thou cursed… Fell source o’ a’ my woe and grief… For lack o’ thee I’ve lost my las… For lack o’ thee I scrimp my glas… I see the children of affliction

O, were my love yon lilac fair Wi’ purple blossoms to the spring, And I a bird to shelter there, When wearied on my little wing. How I wad mourn when it was torn

O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Ran… The wale o’ cocks for fun an’ drin… There’s mony godly folks are think… Your dreams and tricks Will send you, Korah-like, a-sink…

What will I do gin my Hoggie die, My joy, my pride, my Hoggie: My only beast, I had nae mae, And vow but I was vogie. The lee-lang night we watch’d the…

Fy, let us a’ to Kirkcudbright, For there will be bickerin’ there; For Murray’s light horse are to m… And O, how the heroes will swear! An’ there will be Murray commande…

This day, Time winds th’ exhauste… To run the twelvemonth’s length ag… I see, the old bald-pated fellow, With ardent eyes, complexion sallo… Adjust the unimpair’d machine,

Sleep’st thou, or wak’st thou, fai… Rosy morn now lifts his eye, Numbering ilka bud which Nature Waters wi’ the tears o’ joy. Now, to the streaming fountain,

YE flowery banks o’ bonnie Doon, How can ye blume sae fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae fu’ o’ care! Thou’ll break my heart, thou bonni…

KILMARNOCK wabsters, fidge an… An’ pour your creeshie nations; An’ ye wha leather rax an’ draw, Of a’ denominations; Swith to the Ligh Kirk, ane an’ a…

DEAR Myra, the captive ribband’s… ’Twas all my faithful love could g… And would you ask me to resign The sole reward that crowns my pai… Go, bid the hero who has run

Nae gentle dames, tho’ e’er sae fa… Shall ever be my muse’s care; Their titles a’ are empty show; Gie me my Highland Lassie, O. Within the glen sae bushy, O,

The sun he is sunk in the west; All creatures retired to rest, While here I sit, all sore beset, With sorrow, grief, and woe: And it’s O, fickle Fortune, O!