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ow 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! 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 shepher
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