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,