Such a parcel of rogues in a nation
Fareweel to a’ our Scotish fame,
Fareweel our ancient glory;
Fareweel even to the Scotish name,
Sae fam’d in martial story!
Now Sark rins o’er the Solway sands,
And Tweed rins to the ocean,
To mark whare England’s province stands,
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
What force or guile could not subdue,
Thro’ many warlike ages,
Is wrought now by a coward few,
For hireling traitors’ wages.
The English steel we could disdain,
Secure in valor’s station;
But English gold has been our bane,
Such a parcel of rogues in a nation!
O would, or I had seen the day (or - ere, before)
That treason thus could sell us,
My auld grey head had lien in clay,
Wi’ Bruce...