Now haply down yon gay green shaw, She wanders by yon spreading tree; How blest ye flowers that round her blaw, Ye catch the glances o’ her e’e! O wat ye wha’s, &c. How blest ye birds that round her sing, And welcome in the blooming year; And doubly welcome be the Spring, The season to my Jeanie dear. O wat ye wha’s, &c. The sun blinks blythe on yon town, Among the broomy braes sae green; But my delight in yon town, And dearest pleasure, is my Jean. O wat ye wha’s, &c. Without my Fair, not a’ the charms O’ Paradise could yield me joy; But give me Jeanie in my arms And welcome Lapland’s dreary sky! O wat ye wha’s, &c. My cave wad be a lover’s bower, Tho’ raging Winter rent the air; And she a lovely little flower, That I wad tent and shelter there. O wat ye wha’s, &c. O sweet is she in yon town, The sinkin, sun’s gane down upon; A fairer than’s in yon town, His setting beam ne’er shone upon. O wat ye wha’s, &c. If angry Fate is sworn my foe, And suff’ring I am doom’d to bear; I careless quit aught else below, But spare, O spare me Jeanie dear. O wat ye wha’s, &c. For while life’s dearest blood is warm, Ae thought frae her shall ne’er depart, And she, as fairest is her form, She has the truest, kindest heart. O wat ye wha’s, &c. Ballads on Mr. Heron’s Election, 1795 Ballad First Whom will you send to London town, To Parliament and a’ that? Or wha in a’ the country round The best deserves to fa’ that? For a’ that, and a’ that, Thro’ Galloway and a’ that, Where is the Laird or belted Knight The best deserves to fa’ that? Wha sees Kerroughtree’s open yett, (And wha is’t never saw that?) Wha ever wi’ Kerroughtree met, And has a doubt of a’ that? For a’ that, and a’ that, Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! The independent patriot, The honest man, and a’ that. Tho’ wit and worth, in either sex, Saint Mary’s Isle can shaw that, Wi’ Dukes and Lords let Selkirk mix, And weel does Selkirk fa’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! The independent commoner Shall be the man for a’ that. But why should we to Nobles jouk, And is’t against the law, that? For why, a Lord may be a gowk, Wi’ ribband, star and a’ that, For a’ that, and a’ that, Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! A Lord may be a lousy loun, Wi’ ribband, star and a’ that. A beardless boy comes o’er the hills, Wi’ uncle’s purse and a’ that; But we’ll hae ane frae mang oursels, A man we ken, and a’ that. For a’ that, and a’ that, Here’s Heron yet for a’ that! For we’re not to be bought and sold, Like naigs, and nowt, and a’ that.