Poem by Robert Burns

Awa, Whigs

  AWA, Whigs, awa!
    Awa, Whigs, awa!
  Ye’re but a pack o’ traitor louns,
    Ye’ll do nae good at a’.

Our thrissles flourish’d fresh and fair,
  And bonnie bloom’d our roses;
But Whigs cam’ like a frost in June,
  And wither’d a’ our posies.

Our ancient crown’s fa’en 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.

Our sad decay in Church and State
  Surpasses my descriving;
The Whigs came o’er us for a curse,
  And we hae done with thriving.

Grim vengeance lang has ta’en a nap,
  But we may see him wauken;
Gude help the day when royal heads
  Are hunted like a maukin!

  Awa, Whigs, awa!
    Awe, Whigs, awa!
  Ye’re but a pack o’ traitor louns,
    Ye’ll do nae gude at a’.

1. I Gaed a Waefu' Gate Yestreen
2. Blythe Was She
3. Farewell to Ballochmyle
4. Stay My Charmer
5. On a Bank of Flowers

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