大象传媒

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,
And wither'd a' our posies.

Our ancient crown's fa'n in the dust;
Deil blin' them wi' the stoure o't,
And write their names in his black beuk
Wha gae the whigs the power o't!

Our sad decay in church and state
Surpasses my descriving:
The whigs cam o'er us for a curse,
And we have done wi'thriving.

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 awa,
Awa whigs awa,
Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns,
Ye'll do nae gude at a'.