LXXXI. 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’.