She 's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg,
Sin I could striddle owre a rig;

But by the Ld, tho' I should beg
Wi' lyart pow,

I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg,
As lang 's I dow!

Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer,

I've seen the bud upo' the timmer,

Still persecuted by the limmer

Frae year to year;

But yet, despite the kittle kimmer,
I, Rob, am here.

Do ye envy the city-gent,
Behint a kist to lie an' sklent,

Or purse-proud, big wi' cent per cent,
An' muckle wame,

In some bit Brugh to represent

A Baillie's name?

Or is 't the paughty, feudal Thane, Wi' ruffl'd sark an' glancin cane, Wha thinks himsel nae sheep-shank bane, But lordly stalks,

While caps an' bonnets aff are taen,

As by he walks ?

She has given me many a jerk and kick Since I could straddle over a furrow. But, by the Lord! though I should beg With a grey head,

I'll laugh and sing and dance

As long as I can!

Now comes the twenty-sixth summer In which I have seen the bud on the tree, Still persecuted by the jade

From year to year;

But yet, in spite of the inconstant hussy, I, Rob, am here.

Shee 'z geen mee munnie a jirt un fleg
Sin A cood striddul owr a rig;

But by the Loard, thoa A shid beg

Wi liiurt pow,

A'll lakh, un sing, un shaik ma leg,
Az lang 'z A dow!

Noo cumz the sax-un-twintiuth simmur,
A'v seen the bud upoa the timmur,
Still pairsicyootit ba the limmur
Fay yeer tay yeer;

But yet, dispeit the kittul kimmur,
A, Roab, am heer.

Dee yee envii the sittie-jent,
Uhint a kist tay lee un sklent,
Or purs-prood, big wi sent pur sent,
Un muckul waim,

In sum bit brukh tay riprizent

A Beilie 'z naim ?

Or is 't the pawkhtie, fyoodul Thain,
Wi ruffuld sark un glansin cain,
Hwaw thinks umsel nay sheep-shank bain,
But loardlie stawks,

Hweil keps un bunnits aff ar tain

Az bii hee wawks ?

Do you envy the city-gent,

And long to lie and cheat behind a box,
Or purse-proud, swollen with cent per cent,
And a fat belly,

To represent in some small Borough

The name of Magistrate?

Or the haughty feudal nobleman

With ruffled shirt and polished cane,

Who thinks himself no small beer (bone of a sheep's leg), But stalks with lordly gait,

While caps and bonnets are doffed

As he walks past?

R

'O Thou wha gies us each guid gift! Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift,

Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift,
Thro' Scotland wide;
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift,
In a' their pride!'

Were this the charter of our state,
'On pain o' hell be rich an' great,'
Damnation then would be our fate,
Beyond remead;

But, thanks to Heav'n, that 's no the gate
We learn our creed.

For thus the royal Mandate ran,

When first the human race began,

'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan,

And none but he.'

O Mandate, glorious and divine!
The followers o' the ragged Nine,
Poor, thoughtless devils! yet may shine
In glorious light,

While sordid sons o' Mammon's line

Are dark as night!

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl,

Their worthless nievefu' of a soul,

May in some future carcase howl,

The forest's fright;

Or in some day-detesting owl

May shun the light.

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise,
To reach their native, kindred skies,
And sing their pleasures, hopes an' joys,
In some mild sphere,

Still closer knit in friendship's ties

Each passing year!

'O Thoo hwaw geez us each gid gift! Gee mee oa wut un sens a lift,

Then turn mee, if Thoo pleez, udrift,

Throo Scoatlun weid;

Wi sits or lairdz A wudna shift,

In aw thur preid.'

Wur this the chartur oa oor stait, 'Oan pain oa hell bee rich un grait,' Damnaishun than wid bee oor fait,

Uyoant rimeed;

But, thenks tay Heevn, that 's noa the gait Wee lairn oor creed.

(The rest is mainly English.)

6

O Thou who givest us each good gift! Give me a modicum of wit and sense; Then, if thou pleasest, turn me adrift Through broad Scotland.

I wouldn't exchange with citizens or squires In all their pride.'

If this were the charter of our state,

On pain of hell be rich and great,'

Then damnation would be our fate

Without remedy.

But, thanks to Heaven, that is not the way We learn our creed.

(The rest is mainly English.)

SONGS

AWA', WHIGS, AWA'!

(As usually printed.)

CHORUS.

Awa', Whigs, awa'!

Awa', Whigs, awa'!

Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns,
Ye'll do nae gude at a'!

OUR thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair,
And bonie bloom'd our roses;
But Whigs cam like a frost in June,
And wither'd a' our posies.

Awa', Whigs, &c.

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!
Awa', Whigs, &c.

Our sad decay in Church and State,
Surpasses my descriving:

The Whigs cam o'er us for a curse,
And we hae done wi' thriving.
Awa', Whigs, &c.

Grim Vengeance lang has taen a nap;
But we may see him wauken :
Gude help the day when royal heads
Are hunted like a maukin!

Awa', Whigs, &c.

CHORUS.

Away, Whigs, away!

Away, Whigs, away!

You're but a pack of traitor rascals,
You'll do no good at all.

OUR thistles blossomed fresh and fair
And prettily bloomed our roses;
But Whigs came like a frost in June
And withered all our posies.