Glen Collection of printed music > Printed text > National melodist

POPUtAB SONGS. 6S
AWA, WHIGS, AWA.
A JACOBITE SONG.
Our thistles flourish 'd fresh and fair,
And bonny bloom'd our roses,
But Whigs came, like a frost in June,
And wither 'd a' our posies.
Awa, Whigs awa !
Awa, Whigs awa 1
Ye're but a pack o' traitor leons ;
Ye'll ne'er do good at a'.
Our sad decay in church and state
Surpasses my descriving ;
The whigs came o'er us for a curse,
And we have done wi thriving.
A foreign Whiggish loon brought seeds,
In Scottish yird to cover ;
But we'll pu' a' his dibbled leeks.
And pack him to Hanover.
Our ancient crown's fa'n i' the dust,
Deil blind them wi' the stour o't !
And write their names in his black beuk,
Wha ga'e the Whigs the power o't !
Grim Vengeance lang has ta'en a nap,
But we may see him wauken :
Gude help the day, when royal heads
Are hunted like a maukia !
The diel he heard the stour o' tongues.
And ramping cam' amang us ;
But he pitied us, sae cursed wi' Whigs,—
He turn'd, and wadna wrang us,