Green Grows the Rashes/The Lass o' Glenshee
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THE LASS O' GLENSHEE.
On bonny day, when the leather was blooming,
and the silent hill burn'd wi' the sore laden bee,
I met a fair maid as I hameward was riding,
herding her sheep on the hills o' Glenshee.
The rose in her cheek it was gem'd wi' a dimple,
and blythe were the b'inks o' her bonny black e'e
Her face to enchanting, so neat and so handsome,
my heart soon belonged to the lass o' Glenshee.
and the silent hill burn'd wi' the sore laden bee,
I met a fair maid as I hameward was riding,
herding her sheep on the hills o' Glenshee.
The rose in her cheek it was gem'd wi' a dimple,
and blythe were the b'inks o' her bonny black e'e
Her face to 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 ruair frae that the lass o' Glenshee.
A carriage for leasure ye shall hae to ride in
and fouk shall Men when they speak unto thee,
Servant ye shall hae for to do your bidden,
I'll mak you my lady the lass o' Glenshee.
if you will but gang to St Johnstone wi' me.
There's nane of the fair shall set foot on the causey,
with cleading ruair frae that the lass o' Glenshee.
A carriage for leasure ye shall hae to ride in
and fouk shall Men 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've luc a flee,
I would think mysel' happy in coble o' puding,
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.
nor think that your grandeur I've luc a flee,
I would think mysel' happy in coble o' puding,
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 may 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 old and young o' them,
but we ken little of that in the hills o' Glenshee
the spring may 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 old and young o' them,
but we ken little of 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 humbly pun 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 arme I'll doat you rae kindly,
she smil'd and consented, I took her wi' me.
set up for a sale in a window so high,
Roll'd up like a witch in a humbly pun 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 arme I'll doat you rae kindly,
she smil'd and consented, I took her wi' me.
Now years has gane round since we busked thegither
and seasons have changed, but nae chaoges wi' me,
She's ay as gay as the fine summer weather,
when Boreas bloww 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.
and seasons have changed, but nae chaoges wi' me,
She's ay as gay as the fine summer weather,
when Boreas bloww 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.