OUR
THRISSLES
FLOURISHED FRESH AND FAIR.
Robert Forst
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe--
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
II.
Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below:
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe--
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.
* * * * *
[Illustration:]
LXXX.
JOHN ANDERSON.
Tune--"_John Anderson, my jo. _"
[Soon after the death of Burns, the very handsome Miscellanies of
Brash and Reid, of Glasgow, contained what was called an improved John
Anderson, from the pen of the Ayrshire bard; but, save the second
stanza, none of the new matter looked like his hand.
"John Anderson, my jo, John,
When nature first began
To try her cannie hand, John,
Her master-piece was man;
And you amang them a', John,
Sae trig frae tap to toe,
She proved to be nae journey-work,
John Anderson, my jo. "]
I.
"John Anderson, my jo, John,
When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is beld, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson, my jo.
II.
John Anderson, my jo, John,
We clamb the hill thegither;
And mony a canty day, John,
We've had wi' ane anither:
Now we maun totter down, John,
But hand in hand we'll go;
And sleep thegither at the foot,
John Anderson, my jo.
* * * * *
LXXXI.
OUR THRISSLES FLOURISHED FRESH AND FAIR.
Tune--"_Awa Whigs, awa. _"
[Burns trimmed up this old Jacobite ditty for the Museum, and added
some of the bitterest bits: the second and fourth verses are wholly
his. ]
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!
