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’.
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