Robert Burns (1759–1796). Poems and Songs.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14. |
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| 289. Song—Awa’, Whigs, Awa’ |
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| Chorus.—Awa’ Whigs, awa’! | |
| Awa’ Whigs, awa’! | |
| Ye’re but a pack o’ traitor louns, | |
| Ye’ll do nae gude at a’. | |
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| OUR thrissles flourish’d fresh and fair, | 5 |
| And bonie bloom’d our roses; | |
| But Whigs cam’ like a frost in June, | |
| An’ wither’d a’ our posies. | |
| Awa’ Whigs, &c. | |
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| Our ancient crown’s fa’en in the dust— | 10 |
| 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. | |
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| Our sad decay in church and state | 15 |
| Surpasses my descriving: | |
| The Whigs cam’ o’er us for a curse, | |
| An’ we hae done wi’ thriving. | |
| Awa’ Whigs, &c. | |
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| Grim vengeance lang has taen a nap, | 20 |
| But we may see him wauken: | |
| Gude help the day when royal heads | |
| Are hunted like a maukin! | |
| Awa’ Whigs, &c. | |
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