The Devil he swore by the edge o' his knife, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme; He pitied the man that was tied to a wife, And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
The Devil he swore by the kirk and the bell, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme; He was not in wedlock, thank Heav'n, but in hell, And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
Then Satan has travell'd again wi' his pack, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme; And to her auld husband he's carried her back, And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
I hae been a Devil the feck o' my life, Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme; “But ne'er was in hell till I met wi' a wife,” And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime.
It was in sweet Senegal that my foes did me enthral, For the lands of Virginia,--ginia, O: Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more; And alas! I am weary, weary O: Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more; And alas! I am weary, weary O.
All on that charming coast is no bitter snow and frost, Like the lands of Virginia,--ginia, O: There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow, And alas! I am weary, weary O: There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow, And alas! I am weary, weary O:
The burden I must bear, while the cruel scourge I fear, In the lands of Virginia,--ginia, O; And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear, And alas! I am weary, weary O: And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear, And alas! I am weary, weary O:
Chorus--O can ye labour lea, young man, O can ye labour lea? It fee nor bountith shall us twine Gin ye can labour lea.
I fee'd a man at Michaelmas, Wi' airle pennies three; But a' the faut I had to him, He could na labour lea, O can ye labour lea, &c.
O clappin's gude in Febarwar, An' kissin's sweet in May; But my delight's the ploughman lad, That weel can labour lea, O can ye labour lea, &c.
O kissin is the key o' luve, And clappin' is the lock; An' makin' o's the best thing yet, That e'er a young thing gat. O can ye labour lea, &c.
The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout, The deuks dang o'er my daddie, O! The fien-ma-care, quo' the feirrie auld wife, He was but a paidlin' body, O! He paidles out, and he paidles in, rn' he paidles late and early, O! This seven lang years I hae lien by his side, An' he is but a fusionless carlie, O.