Robert Burns

Mourn, little harebells, o'er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see!
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie
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Mourn, little harebells, o'er the lea;
Ye stately foxgloves fair to see!
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie
In scented bowers!
Ye roses on your thorny tree
The first o' flow'rs.

The mother may forget the child
That smiles sae sweetly on her knee;
But I'll remember thee, read more

The mother may forget the child
That smiles sae sweetly on her knee;
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,
And all that thou hast done for me!

Liberty's in every blow!
Let us do or die.

Liberty's in every blow!
Let us do or die.

What's a' your jargon o' your schools,
Your Latin names for horns and stools;
If honest nature read more

What's a' your jargon o' your schools,
Your Latin names for horns and stools;
If honest nature made you fools.

Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin' through the rye,
She draigl't a' her petticoatie,
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Comin' through the rye, poor body,
Comin' through the rye,
She draigl't a' her petticoatie,
Comin' through the rye
. . . .
Gin a body meet a body
Comin' through the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body
Need a body cry?