No More Learning

The warly race may riches chase,
An' riches still may fly them, O;
An' tho' at last they catch them fast,
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

III.

But 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.

IV.

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this,
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O:
The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.

V.

Auld Nature swears the lovely dears
Her noblest work she classes, O:
Her 'prentice han' she try'd on man,
An' then she made the lasses, O.
Green grow the rashes, O!
Green grow the rashes, O!
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend
Are spent amang the lasses, O.

* * * * *




XVIII.

MY JEAN!

Tune--"_The Northern Lass. _"

[The lady on whom this passionate verse was written was Jean Armour. ]


Though cruel fate should bid us part,
Far as the pole and line,
Her dear idea round my heart,
Should tenderly entwine.
Though mountains rise, and deserts howl,
And oceans roar between;
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul,
I still would love my Jean

* * * * *




XIX.

ROBIN.

Tune--"_Daintie Davie. _"

[Stothard painted a clever little picture from this characteristic
ditty: the cannie wife, it was evident, saw in Robin's palm something
which tickled her, and a curious intelligence sparkled in the eyes of
her gossips. ]


I.

There was a lad was born in Kyle,
But whatna day o' whatna style
I doubt it's hardly worth the while
To be sae nice wi' Robin.
Robin was a rovin' boy,
Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin';
Robin was a rovin' boy,
Rantin' rovin' Robin!

II.

Our monarch's hindmost year but ane
Was five-and-twenty days begun,
Twas then a blast o' Janwar win'
Blew hansel in on Robin.

III.

The gossip keekit in his loof,
Quo' she, wha lives will see the proof.
This waly boy will be nae coof,
I think we'll ca' him Robin

IV.

He'll hae misfortunes great and sma',
But ay a heart aboon them a';
He'll be a credit to us a',
We'll a' be proud o' Robin.

V.

But sure as three times three mak nine,
I see by ilka score and line,
This chap will dearly like our kin',
So leeze me on thee, Robin.

VI.