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　　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,

　　Wha gae the Whigs the power o't.

　　Awa' Whigs, &c.

　　Our sad decay in church and state

　　Surpasses my descriving:

　　The Whigs cam' o'er us for a curse,

　　An' we hae done wi' thriving.

　　Awa' Whigs, &c.

　　Grim vengeance lang has taen a nap,

　　But we may see him wauken:

　　Gude help the day when royal heads

　　Are hunted like a maukin!

　　Awa' Whigs, &c. Poems and Songs of Robert Burns