LXXXI.
Reading edition
OUR THRISSLES FLOURISHED FRESH AND FAIR.
Tune—“Awa Whigs, awa.”
[Burns trimmed up this old Jacobite ditty for the Museum, and added some of the bitterest bits: the second and fourth verses are wholly his.]
CHORUS.
Awa Whigs, awa! Awa Whigs, awa! Ye’re but a pack o’ traitor louns, Ye’ll do nae good at a’.
I
Our thrissles flourish’d fresh and fair, And bonnie bloom’d our roses; But Whigs came like a frost in June, And wither’d a’ our posies.
II.
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.
III.
Our sad decay in Church and State Surpasses my descriving: The Whigs came o’er us for a curse, And we hae done wi’ thriving.
IV.
Grim vengeance lang ha’s 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’.