Awa' Whigs, Awa'

      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.