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Poem by Robert Burns

Awa, Whigs

  AWA, Whigs, awa!
    Awa, Whigs, awa!
  Yere but a pack o traitor louns,
    Yell do nae good at a.

Our thrissles flourishd fresh and fair,
  And bonnie bloomd our roses;
But Whigs cam like a frost in June,
  And witherd a our posies.

Our ancient crowns faen in the dust-
  Deil blin them wi the stoure ot;
And write their names in his black beuk,
  Wha gae the Whigs the power ot.

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

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, awa!
    Awe, Whigs, awa!
  Yere but a pack o traitor louns,
    Yell do nae gude at a.


Robert Burns

Robert Burns's other poems:
  1. The Sailors Song
  2. Evan Banks
  3. The Rantin Dog the Daddie Ot
  4. Had I The Wyte
  5. The Fete Champetre

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