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!
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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!
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