Robert Burns, 1789
|: Awa, Whigs, awa! :|
Ye're but a pack o traitor louns,
Ye'll do nae guid at a'.
Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair,
2. Our ancient crown's fa'en in the dust;
3. Our sad decay in church and state|
Surpasses my descriving:
The Whig cam o'er us for a curse,
An' we hae done wi' thriving.
4. Grim Vengeance lang has taen a nap,
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