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.

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.