Awa Whigs, Awa

OUR THRISSLES FLOURISHED FRESH AND FAIR.

Tune--"_Awa Whigs, awa._"

[Burns trimmed up this old Jacobite ditty for the Museum, and added
some of the bitterest bits: the second and fourth verses are wholly
his.]

CHORUS.
    Awa Whigs, awa!
      Awa Whigs, awa!
    Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns,
      Ye'll do nae good at a'.
I
    Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair,
      And bonnie bloom'd our roses;
    But Whigs came like a frost in June,
      And wither'd a' our posies.
II.
    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.
III.
    Our sad decay in Church and State
      Surpasses my descriving:
    The Whigs came o'er us for a curse,
      And we hae done wi' thriving.
IV.
    Grim vengeance lang ha's taen a nap,
      But we may see him wauken;
    Gude help the day when royal heads
      Are hunted like a maukin.
          Awa Whigs, awa!
            Awa Whigs, awa!
          Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns,
            Ye'll do nae gude at a'.