Such A Parcel Of Rogues In A Nation.

Tune. - "A parcel of rogues in a nation."


I.

    Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame,
        Fareweel our ancient glory,
    Fareweel even to the Scottish name,
        Sae fam'd in martial story.
    Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands,
        And Tweed rins to the ocean,
    To mark where England's province stands
        Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.

II.

    What force or guile could not subdue,
        Thro' many warlike ages,
    Is wrought now by a coward few
        For hireling traitor's wages.
    The English steel we could disdain;
        Secure in valour's station;
    But English gold has been our bane
        Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.

III.

    O would, or I had seen the day
        That treason thus could sell us,
    My auld gray head had lien in clay,
        Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace!
    But pith and power, till my last hour,
        I'll mak' this declaration;
    We've bought and sold for English gold
        Such a parcel of rogues in a nation.

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

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English

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On Captain Grose's Peregrinations Through Scotland, Collecting The Antiquities Of That Kingdom.

    Hear, Land o' Cakes and brither Scots,
    Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groat's;
    If there's a hole in a' your coats,
        I rede you tent it:
    A chiel's amang you taking notes,
        And, faith, he'll prent it!

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    Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight,
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        That's he, mark weel,
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    By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin,
    Or kirk deserted by its riggin,
    It's ten to one ye'll find him snug in
        Some eldritch part,
    Wi' deils, they say, L--d save's! colleaguin'
        At some black art.

    Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer,
    Ye gipsey-gang that deal in...

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Scots Prologue, For Mr. Sutherland's Benefit Night, Dumfries.

        What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on,
    How this new play an' that new sang is comin'?
    Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted?
    Does nonsense mend like whiskey, when imported?
    Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame,
    Will try to gie us songs and plays at hame?
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    A fool and knave are plants of every soil;
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    To gather matter for a serious piece;
    There's themes enough in Caledonian story,
    Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory.

    Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell
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Epistle To Major Logan.

    Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie!
    Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly
    To every fiddling, rhyming billie,
        We never heed,
    But tak' it like the unback'd filly,
        Proud o' her speed.

    When idly goavan whyles we saunter
    Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter
    Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter,
        Some black bog-hole,
    Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter
        We're forced to thole.

    Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle!
    Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
    To cheer you through the weary widdle
        O' this wild warl',
    Until you on a crummock driddle
        A gray-hair'd carl.

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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,
  ...

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To J. Lapraik. (Second Epistle.)

April 21st, 1785.


    While new-ca'd ky, rowte at the stake,
    An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik,
    This hour on e'enin's edge I take
        To own I'm debtor,
    To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik,
        For his kind letter.

    Forjesket sair, wi' weary legs,
    Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs,
    Or dealing thro' amang the naigs
        Their ten hours' bite,
    My awkart muse sair pleads and begs,
        I would na write.

    The tapetless ramfeezl'd hizzie,
    She's saft at best, and something lazy,
    Quo' she, "Ye ken, we've been sae busy,
        This month' an' mair,
    That trouth, my head is grown right dizzie,
        An' something sair."

    Her dowff excuses pat me mad:
  ...

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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...

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