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,