.Awa' whigs awa'
(Robert Burns)
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.
Chorus
Awa, Whigs, awa!
Awa, Whigs, awa!
Ye're but a pack o traitor louns,
Ye'll do nae guid at a.
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