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.
CHOR: Awa, Whigs, awa!
Awa, Whigs, awa!
Ye're but a pack o traitor louns,
Ye'll do nae guid at a'.
Our ancient crown's fa'n in the dust;
Deil blin' them wi the stoure o't,
An write their names in the black beuk
Wha gae the Whigs the power o't!
Our sad decay in church and state
Surpasses my descriving:
The Whig cam o'er us for a curse,
An we hae done wi thriving.
Grim Vengeance lang has taen a nap,
But we may see him waukin:
Gude help the day when Royal heads
Are hunted like a maukin!