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Poem	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 state Surpasses 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 heads Are hunted like a maukin! Awa’ Whigs, &c.
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