Awa Whigs Awa

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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,
And wither'd a' our posies.

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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!

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Our sad decay in church and state
Surpasses my descriving:
The whigs cam o'er us for a curse,
And we have done wi'thriving.

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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.

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