Awa’ Whigs, Awa’
Chorus.—Awa’ Whigs, awa’!Awa’ Whigs, awa’!Ye’re but a pack o’ traitor louns,Ye’ll do nae gude at a’.
Our thrissles flourish’d fresh and fair,And bonie bloom’d our roses;But Whigs cam’ like a frost in June,An’ wither’d a’ our posies.Awa’ Whigs, &c.
Our ancient crown’s fa’en in the dust—Deil blin’ them wi’ the stoure o’t!An’ write their names in his black beuk,Wha gae the Whigs the power o’t.Awa’ Whigs, &c.
Our sad decay in church and stateSurpasses my descriving:The Whigs cam’ o’er us for a curse,An’ we hae done wi’ thriving.Awa’ Whigs, &c.
Grim vengeance lang has taen a nap,But we may see him wauken:Gude help the day when royal headsAre hunted like a maukin!Awa’ Whigs, &c.