Page:The Book of Scottish Song.djvu/549

Rh Where love is planted there it grows, It buds and blows like any rose; It has a sweet and pleasant smell; No flower on earth can it excel. I put my hand into the bush, And thought the sweetest rose to find; But pricked my finger to the bone, And left the sweetest rose behind.

[ by, and published in his Popular Ballads and Songs, (Edinburgh, 1806.) The tune called "Bobbing John" is an old English one.]

for bobbing John! Kittle up the chanter! Bang up a strathspey, To fling wi' John the ranter. Johnnie's stout an' bald, Ne'er could thole a banter; Bein in byre and fauld, An', lasses, he's a wanter. Back as braid's a door; Bowhought like a filly; Thick about the brawns, An' o'er the breast and belly. Hey for bobbing John! Kittle up the chanter! Queans are a' gane gyte, To fling wi' John the ranter. Bonnie's his black e'e, Blinkin', blythe, and vogie, Wi' lassie on his knee, In his nieve a coggie; Syne the lad will kiss, Sweetly kiss an' cuddle; Cauld wad be' her heart, That could wi' Johnnie widdle. Sonse fa' bobbing John; Want an' wae gae by him; There's in town nor land Nae chiel disna envy him. Flingin' to the pipe, Bobbing to the fiddle, Kneif was ilka lass, That could wi' Johnnie meddle.

[ is the name of an old song and tune. The old words, however, are very coarse, and altered them as follows for Johnson's Museum, applying them to himself in the character of a poet. The tune is sometimes erroneously called "Bobbing John."]

shure in hairst; I shure wi' him: Fient a heuk had I, Yet I stack by him. I gaed up to Dunse, To warp a wab o' plaidin'; At his daddie's yet, Wha met me but Robin? Wasna Robin bauld, Though he was a cottar, Played me sic a trick, And me the eller's doohter! Robin promised me A' my winter's vittle; Fient haet he had but three Guse feathers and a whittle!

[ highly impassioned lyric was written by, while resident in Dumfiries. The heroine was Helen Ann Park, sister of Mrs. Hyslop, the landlady of the Globe Tavern, the poet's favourite "howff" there.—Tune "Banks of Banna."]

I had a pint o' wine, A place where body saw na; Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine The raven locks of Anna. The hungry Jew in wilderness, Rejoicing ower his manna, Was naething to my hinny bliss, Upon the lips of Anna. Ye monarchs tak' the east and west, Frae Indus to Savannah! Gi'e me within my straining grasp The melting form of Anna.