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.]