Hey For A Lass Wi' A Tocher.

Tune - "Balinamona Ora."



I.

    Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms,
    The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms:
    O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms,
    O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms.
        Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher,
        Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher;
        Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher,
            The nice yellow guineas for me.

II.

    Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that blows,
    And withers the faster, the faster it grows;
    But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green knowes,
    Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonnie white yowes.

III.

    And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest,
    The brightest o' beauty may cloy when possest;
    But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie imprest,
    The langer ye hae them - the mair they're carest.
        Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher,
        Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher;
        Then hey for a lass wi' a tocher,
            The nice yellow guineas for me.

Robert Burns

Robert Burns, also known as Rabbie Burns, the Bard of Ayrshire, and various other names and epithets, was a Scottish poet and lyricist. He is widely regarded as the national poet of Scotland and is celebrated worldwide. Born on January 25, 1759, in Alloway, he is best known for works such as 'Auld Lang Syne,' 'Scots Wha Hae,' and 'A Red, Red Rose.' He passed away on July 21, 1796, in Dumfries.

Robert Burns

Song Of Death.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

A Grace Before Meat.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

To Robert Graham, Esq., Of Fintray. On Receiving A Favour.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Auld Lang Syne.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Lass Of Ballochmyle.

Tune - "Miss Forbes's Farewell to Banff."


I.

    'Twas even, the dewy fields were green,
        On every blade the pearls hang,
    The zephyr wanton'd round the bean,
        And bore its fragrant sweets alang:
    In ev'ry glen the mavis sang,
        All nature listening seem'd the while,
    Except where greenwood echoes rang
        Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle!

II.

    With careless step I onward stray'd,
        My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy,
    When musing in a lonely glade,
        A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy;
    Her look was like the morning's eye,
        Her air like nature's vernal smile,
    Perfection whisper'd passing by,
        Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle!

III.

Robert Burns

Country Lassie.

Tune - "The Country Lass."


I.

    In simmer, when the hay was mawn,
        And corn wav'd green in ilka field,
    While claver blooms white o'er the lea,
        And roses blaw in ilka bield;
    Blithe Bessie in the milking shiel,
        Says, I'll be wed, come o't what will;
    Out spak a dame in wrinkled eild
        O' guid advisement comes nae ill.

II.

    It's ye hae wooers mony ane,
        And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken;
    Then wait a wee, and cannie wale,
        A routhie butt, a routhie ben:
    There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen,
        Fu' is his burn, fu' is his byre;
    Tak this frae me, my bonnie hen,
        It's plenty beets the luver's fire.

III.

    For Johnie ...

Robert Burns

The Highland Lassie.

Tune - "The deuks dang o'er my daddy!"


I.

    Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair,
    Shall ever be my muse's care:
    Their titles a' are empty show;
    Gie me my Highland lassie, O.
            Within the glen sae bushy, O,
            Aboon the plains sae rushy, O,
            I set me down wi' right good-will,
            To sing my Highland lassie, O.

II.

    Oh, were yon hills and valleys mine,
    Yon palace and yon gardens fine,
    The world then the love should know
    I bear my Highland lassie, O.

III.

    But fickle fortune frowns on me,
    And I maun cross the raging sea;
    But while my crimson currents flow,
    I'll love my Highland lassie, O.

IV.

    A...

Robert Burns

This Is No My Ain Lassie.

Tune - "This is no my ain house."



I.

            O this is no my ain lassie,
                Fair tho' the lassie be;
            O weel ken I my ain lassie,
                Kind love is in her e'e.
    I see a form, I see a face,
    Ye weel may wi' the fairest place:
    It wants, to me, the witching grace,
        The kind love that's in her e'e.

II.

    She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall,
    And lang has had my heart in thrall;
    And ay it charms my very saul,
        The kind love that's in her e'e.

III.

    A thief sae pawkie is my Jean,
    To steal a blink, by a' unseen;
    But gleg as light are lovers' een,
        When kind love is in the e'e.

IV.

...

Robert Burns

There's Nought But Care.

Tune - "Green grow the rashes."


Chorus.

    Green grow the rashes, O!
        Green grow the rashes, O!
    The sweetest hours that e'er I spend
        Are spent amang the lasses, O.

I.

    There's nought but care on ev'ry han',
        In every hour that passes, O:
    What signifies the life o' man,
        An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.

II.

    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.

Robert Burns

Lassie Wi' The Lint-White Locks.

Tune - "Rothemurche's Rant."


I.

        Lassie wi' the lint-white locks,
            Bonnie lassie, artless lassie,
        Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks?
            Wilt thou be my dearie, O?
    Now nature cleeds the flowery lea,
    And a' is young and sweet like thee;
    O wilt thou share its joy wi' me,
        And say thoul't be my dearie, O?

II.

    And when the welcome simmer shower
    Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower,
    We'll to the breathing woodbine bower
        At sultry noon, my dearie, O.

III.

    When Cynthia lights wi' silver ray,
    The weary shearer's hameward way;
    Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray,
        And talk o' love my dearie, O.

IV.

Robert Burns