Our Thrissles Flourished Fresh And Fair.

Tune - "Awa Whigs, awa."


Chorus.

    Awa Whigs, awa!
        Awa Whigs, awa!
    Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns,
        Ye'll do nae good at a'.

I

    Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair,
        And bonnie bloom'd our roses;
    But Whigs came like a frost in June,
        And wither'd a' our posies.

II.

    Our ancient crown's fa'n in the dust,
        Deil blin' them wi' the stoure o't;
    And write their names in his black beuk,
        Wha gae the Whigs the power o't.

III.

    Our sad decay in Church and State
        Surpasses my descriving:
    The Whigs came o'er us for a curse,
        And we hae done wi' thriving.

IV.

    Grim vengeance lang ha's taen a nap,
        But we may see him wauken;
    Gude help the day when royal heads
        Are hunted like a maukin.
                Awa Whigs, awa!
                    Awa Whigs, awa!
                Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns,
                    Ye'll do nae gude at a'.

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

Verses To A Young Lady.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Henpecked Husband.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

Elegy On The Death Of Robert Ruisseaux.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

The Dumfries Volunteers.

Robert Burns, Simple Poetry

English

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Epistle To William Creech.

Selkirk, 13 May, 1787.

    Auld chukie Reekie's^[1] sair distrest,
    Down droops her ance weel-burnisht crest,
    Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest
        Can yield ava,
    Her darling bird that she lo'es best,
        Willie's awa!

    O Willie was a witty wight,
    And had o' things an unco slight;
    Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight,
        An' trig an' braw:
    But now they'll busk her like a fright,
        Willie's awa!

    The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd;
    The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd;
    They durst nae mair than he allow'd,
        That was a law;
    We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd,
        Willie's awa!

    Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools,
    Frae colleges an...

Robert Burns

To Mrs. Scott, Of Wauchope.

    I mind it weel in early date,
    When I was beardless, young and blate,
        An' first could thresh the barn;
    Or hand a yokin at the pleugh;
    An' tho' forfoughten sair enough,
        Yet unco proud to learn:
    When first amang the yellow corn
        A man I reckon'd was,
    An' wi' the lave ilk merry morn
        Could rank my rig and lass,
            Still shearing, and clearing,
                The tither stooked raw,
            Wi' claivers, an' haivers,
                Wearing the day awa.

    E'en then, a wish, I mind its pow'r,
    A wish that to my latest hour
        Shall strongly heave my breast,
    That I for poor auld Scotland's sake
    Some usefu' plan or beuk could make,
        Or sing a sang at least...

Robert Burns

The Dumfries Volunteers.

Tune - "Push about the jorum."


I.

    Does haughty Gaul invasion threat,
        Then let the loons beware, Sir,
    There's wooden walls upon our seas,
        And volunteers on shore, Sir.
    The Nith shall run to Corsincon,
        And Criffel sink in Solway,
    Ere we permit a foreign foe
        On British ground to rally!

II.

    O let us not, like snarling tykes,
        In wrangling be divided;
    Till slap come in an unco loon
        And wi' a rung decide it.
    Be Britain still to Britain true,
        Amang oursels united;
    For never but by British hands
        Maun British wrangs be righted!

III.

    The kettle o' the kirk and state,
        Perhaps a clout may fail ...

Robert Burns

The Brigs Of Ayr, A Poem, Inscribed To J. Ballantyne, Esq., Ayr.

    The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough,
    Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough;
    The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush,
    Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush:
    The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill,
    Or deep-ton'd plovers, gray, wild-whistling o'er the hill;
    Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed,
    To hardy independence bravely bred,
    By early poverty to hardship steel'd,
    And train'd to arms in stern misfortune's field,
    Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes,
    The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes?
    Or labour hard the panegyric close,
    With all the venal soul of dedicating prose?
    No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,
    And throws his hand uncouthly ...

Robert Burns

The Author's Earnest Cry And Prayer To The Scotch Representatives In The House Of Commons.

    'Dearest of distillation! last and best!----
    ------How art thou lost!--------'

Parody On Milton


    Ye Irish lords, ye knights an' squires,
    Wha represent our brughs an' shires,
    An' doucely manage our affairs
        In Parliament,
    To you a simple Bardie's prayers
        Are humbly sent.

    Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse!
    Your honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce,
    To see her sittin' on her a--e
        Low i' the dust,
    An' scriechin' out prosaic verse,
        An' like to brust!

    Tell them wha hae the chief direction,
    Scotland an' me's in great affliction,
    E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction
        On aqua-vitæ;
    An' rouse them up to strong conviction,
  ...

Robert Burns

The Battle Of Sheriff-Muir.

Tune - "Cameronian Rant."


I.

        "O cam ye here the fight to shun,
        Or herd the sheep wi' me, man?
    Or were ye at the Sherra-muir,
        And did the battle see, man?"
    I saw the battle, sair and tough,
    And reekin' red ran mony a sheugh.
    My heart, for fear, gaed sough for sough,
    To hear the thuds, and see the cluds,
    O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds,
        Wha glaum'd at kingdoms three, man.

II.

    The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades,
        To meet them were na slaw, man;
    They rush'd and push'd, and blude outgush'd,
        And mony a bouk did fa', man:
    The great Argyll led on his files,
    I wat they glanc'd for twenty miles:
    They hough'd the clans like...

Robert Burns