Then, weel may the boatie row,
That wins the bairns's bread;
And happy be the lot of a'
That wish the boat to speed!
The Lark and Wren.
[James Macdonald.—Here first printed.—Air, "Chough and Crow."]
The lark and wren are long awake,
The throstle sings in glee;
The morning breeze sweeps o'er the brake
In joyous liberty.
The dew bells swing in beauty bland,
The streamlet chants its lay;
Then bear a hand, my merry band,
It is our harvest day.
The village maids, all braided fair,
Are tripping o'er the green,
And shepherd lads, with floating hair,
Are kissing beauty's queen.
Each happy swain o'er all the land
Enjoys this morning gay,
Then bear a hand, my merry band,
This is our harvest day.
When evening brings its shady hour
Then who so blythe as we?
The lamp of love in barn and bower
Lights up a scene of glee;
Old Time forgets his running sand
And joins our roundelay,
Now bear a hand, my merry band,
This is our harvest day.
The Evening Shade.
[Willison Glass.—Tune "Andro and his cutty gun."]
Blythe, blythe, an' happy are we,
Cauld care is flegg'd awa';
This is but ae night o' our lives,
An' wha wou'd grudge tho' it were twa.
The ev'ning shade around is spread,
The chilling tempest sweeps the sky;
We're kindly met, an' warmly set,
And streams o' nappy rinnin' by.
Blythe, &c.
While gettin' fou, we're great, I trow,
We scorn misfortune's greatest bangs;
The magic bowl can lift the soul
Aboon the world and a' its wrangs.
Blythe, &c.
The days o' man are but a span,
This mortal life a passing dream,
Nought to illume the dreary gloom
Save love an' friendship's sacred gleam,
Blythe, &c.
Then toom your glass to my sweet lass,
And neist we'll turn it o'er to thine:
The glowin' breast that loo's them best
Shall dearest ever be to mine.
Blythe, &c.
An' here's to you, my friend sae true,
May discord ne'er a feeling wound!
An' shou'd we flyte, ne'er harbour spite,
But in a bowl be't quickly drown'd.
Blythe, &c.
Now rap an' ring, an' gar them bring
The biggest stoupfu' yet we've seen:
Why should we part, when hand and heart
At ilka bumper grows mair keen?
Blythe, &c.
For a’ that.
[Written by Burns in 1794, and in January, 1795, sent to Thomson with the following observation. "A great critic (Aikin) on songs, says that love and wine are the exclusive themes for song-writing. The following is on neither subject, and consequently is no song; but will be allowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme."]
Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass bim by;
