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,