Our Thrissles flourished fresh and fair

Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair,

And bonie bloom'd our roses;

But Whigs came 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 came o'er us for a curse,

And we hae done wi' thriving.

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 maukin.

Awa Whigs, awa!

Awa Whigs, awa

Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns,

Ye'll do nae gude at a'.