OUR THRISSLES FLOURISHED FRESH

AND FAIR.

TUNE-AWA WHIGS, AWA.'

CHORUS.

Awa Whigs, awa!

Awa Whigs, awa !

Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns,
Ye'll do nae good at a'.

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

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.

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.

Grim vengeance lang has ta'en 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'.

PEG-A-RAMSEY.

TUNE 'CAULD IS THE E'ENIN' BLAST.'

CAULD is the e'enin' blast

O' Boreas o'er the pool,

And dawin' it is dreary

When birks are bare at Yule.

O bitter blaws the e'enin' blast
When bitter bites the frost,
And in the mirk and dreary drift
The hills and glens are lost.

Ne'er sae murky blew the night
That drifted o'er the hill,

But bonie Peg-a-Ramsey

Gat grist to her mill.

COME BOAT ME O'ER TO CHARLIE.

TUNE-'O'ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE.'

COME boat me o'er, come row me o'er,
Come boat me o'er to Charlie;
I'll gie John Ross another bawbee,

To boat me o'er to Charlie.

We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea,
We'll o'er the water to Charlie;
Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go,
And live or die wi' Charlie.

I lo'e weel my Charlie's name,
Tho' some there be abhor him:
But O, to see auld Nick gaun hame,
And Charlie's faes before him!

I swear and vow by moon and stars,
And sun that shines so early,
If I had twenty thousand lives,
I'd die as aft for Charlie.

We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea,
We'll o'er the water to Charlie ;
Come weal, come woe, we'll gather and go,
And live or die wi' Charlie !

BRAW LADS OF GALLA WATER.

TUNE-GALLA WATER,'

CHORUS.

Braw, braw lads of Galla Water;
O braw lads of Galla Water!
I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee,
And follow my love through the water.

SAE fair her hair, sae brent her brow,
Sae bonie blue her een, my dearie;
Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou',
The mair I kiss she's ay my dearie.

O'er

yon bank and o'er yon brae, O'er

yon moss amang the heather;
I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee,
And follow my love through the water.

Down amang the broom, the broom,
Down amang the broom, my dearie,
The lassie lost a silken snood,

That cost her mony a blirt and bleary.
Braw, braw lads of Galla Water;
O braw lads of Galla Water:
I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee,
And follow my love through the water.

COMING THROUGH THE RYE.

TUNE-COMING THROUGH THE RYE.'

COMING through the rye, poor body,
Coming through the rye,
She draiglet a' her petticoatie,

Coming through the rye.
Jenny's a' wat, poor body,
Jenny's seldom dry;
She draiglet a' her petticoatie,
Coming through the rye.

Gin a body meet a body—
Coming through the rye ;
Gin a body kiss a body—
Need a body cry?

Gin a body meet a body
Coming through the glen,
Gin a body kiss a body—
Need the world ken?
Jenny's a' wat, poor body;
Jenny's seldom dry;

She draiglet a' her petticoatie,

Coming through the rye.

THE LASS OF ECCLEFECHAN.

TUNE-JACKY LATIN.'

GAT ye me, O gat ye me,

O gat ye me wi' naething?
Rock and reel, and spinnin' wheel,
A mickle quarter basin.

Bye attour, my gutcher has

A hich,house and a laigh ane,
A' forbye, my bonie sel',

The toss of Ecclefechan.

O haud your tongue now, Luckie Laing,
O haud your tongue and jauner;

I held the gate till you I met,
Syne I began to wander :

I tint my whistle and my sang,
I tint my peace and pleasure;
But your green graff, now, Luckie Laing,
Wad airt me to my treasure.

THE SLAVE'S LAMENT.

It was in sweet Senegal that my foes did me enthral,

For the lands of Virginia, O ;

Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it

more,

And alas I am weary, weary, O!

All on that charming coast is no bitter snow or

frost,

Like the lands of Virginia, O ;

There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow,

And alas I am weary, weary, O!

The burden I must bear, while the cruel scourge

I fear,

In the lands of Virginia, O;