No More Learning

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'.

* * * * *




LXXXII.

CA' THE EWES.

Tune--"_Ca' the ewes to the knowes.
_"

[Most of this sweet pastoral is of other days: Burns made several
emendations, and added the concluding verse. He afterwards, it will be
observed, wrote for Thomson a second version of the subject and the
air. ]


CHORUS

Ca' the ewes to the knowes,
Ca' them whare the heather grows,
Ca' them whare the burnie rowes,
My bonnie dearie!

I.

As I gaed down the water-side,
There I met my shepherd lad,
He row'd me sweetly in his plaid,
An' he ca'd me his dearie.

II.

Will ye gang down the water-side,
And see the waves sae sweetly glide,
Beneath the hazels spreading wide?
The moon it shines fu' clearly.

III.

I was bred up at nae sic school,
My shepherd lad, to play the fool,
And a' the day to sit in dool,
And naebody to see me.

IV.

Ye sall get gowns and ribbons meet,
Cauf-leather shoon upon your feet,
And in my arms ye'se lie and sleep,
And ye shall be my dearie.

V.

If ye'll but stand to what ye've said,
I'se gang wi' you, my shepherd lad,
And ye may rowe me in your plaid,
And I shall be your dearie.

VI.

While waters wimple to the sea;
While day blinks in the lift sae hie;
'Till clay-cauld death sall blin' my e'e,
Ye sall be my dearie.