AWA', WHIGS, AWA!

From "Hogg's Jacobite Relics."

OUR thistles flourish'd fresh and fair,
And bonny bloom'd our roses;
But Whigs came like a frost in June,
And wither'd a' our posies.
Awa', Whigs, awa'!

Awa', Whigs, awa'!
Ye're but a pack o' traitor loons;
Ye'll ne'er do good at a'.

Our sad decay in church and state
Surpasses my descriving;

The Whigs came o'er us for a curse,
And we have done wi' thriving.
A foreign Whiggish loon bought seeds,
In Scottish yaird to cover;
But we'll pu' a' his dibbled leeks,
And pack him to Hanover.

Our ancient crown's fa'n i' the dust,
Deil blind them wi' the stour o't!

And write their names in his black book
Wha ga'e the Whigs the power o't.

Grim Vengeance lang has ta'en a nap,
But we may see him wauken;
God help the day when royal heads
Are hunted like a maukin!

The deil he heard the storm o' tongues,
And ramping came amang us;
But he pitied us, sae cursed wi' Whigs,
He turn'd and wadna wrang us.

Sae grim he sat amang the reek,
Thrang bundling brunstane matches;
And croon❜d 'mang the beuk-taking Whigs,

Scraps of auld Calvin's catches.

Awa', Whigs, awa'!

Awa', Whigs, awa’!

Ye'll rin me out o' brunstane spunks,

And ne'er do good at a'.

They broke my bower, and slew my knight,

Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.

With ae lock of his jet-black hair,

Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.

I'll tie my heart for evermair;

Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.

Nae sly-tongued youth or flattering swain,

Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.

Shall e'er untie this knot again;

Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.

Thine still, dear youth, that heart shall be,
Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.

Nor pant for aught save heaven and thee,
Oh, ono chri, oh! &c.

THE AULD STUARTS BACK AGAIN.

ANONYMOUS. 1745.

THE auld Stuarts back again!
The auld Stuarts back again!
Let howlet Whigs do what they can,
The Stuarts will be back again.
Wha cares for a' their creeshie auds,
And a' Kilmarnock's sowan suds?
We'll wauk their hides and fyle their fuds,
And bring the Stuarts back again.
There's Ayr and Irvine, wi' the rest,
And a' the cronies o' the west;
Lord, sic a scaw'd and scabbit nest,

And they'll set up their crack again!
But wad they come, or daur they come,
Afore the bagpipe and the drum,
We'll either gar them a' sing dumb,
Or," Auld Stuarts back again."

Give ear unto this loyal sang,
A' ye that ken the richt frae wrang,
An' a' that look and think it lang,

For auld Stuarts back again :
Were ye wi' me to chase the rae,
Out owre the hills an' far away,
And saw the lords come there that day,
To bring the Stuarts back again.

There might ye see the noble Mar,
Wi' Athole, Huntly, and Traquair,
Seaforth, Kilsyth, and Auldublair,

And mony mae, what reck, again.
Then what are a' their westlin' crews?
We'll gar the tailors tack again :
Can they forstand the tartan trews,
And" Auld Stuarts back again!"

THE DUKE OF CUMBERLAND.

From "The Wanderings of Prince Charles and Flora Macdonald,"
by PETER BUCHAN.

THAT mushrom thing call'd Cumberland
Has lately pass'd the Forth, sir;
But he's commenced plunderland
Since he gaed to the north, sir;

Sing audlie ilti, audlie ilti, audlie ilti, lara, lara ;
Sing audlie ilti, audlie ilti, audlie ilti, lara, lara.

He is the first of all the line
Call'd Protestant, I swear, sir,
That ever kiss'd our ladies fine,

Or breathed in Scottish air, sir.

Our priest he has incarcerate,

Sing audlie ilti, &c.

And burn'd our altars down, sir; The godless Whigs rejoice at that,

And bless the firebrand loon, sir.

Sing audlie ilti, &c.

But when our tartan lads come back,
And messieurs land at Dover,
We'll singe the lousy German pack,
And drive them to Hanover.

Sing audlie ilti, &c.

Then all the brood o'erwhelm'd with dool,
I'll pledge my faith and troth, sir,
Instead of tarts and pies at yule,
They'll slab their turnip-broth, sir.

Sing audlie ilti, &c.

OH, HE'S BEEN LANG O' COMING!
From PETER BUCHAN'S "Prince Charles and Flora Macdonald."

THE youth that should hae been our king
Was dress'd in yellow, red, and green;
A braver lad ye wadna seen

Nor our brave royal Charlie.

Oh, he's been lang o' coming,
Lang, lang, lang o' coming;
Oh, he's been lang o' coming:
Welcome, royal Charlie !

At Falkirk and at Prestonpans,
Supported by the Highland clans,
They broke the Hanoverian bands,
For our brave royal Charlie.

Oh, he's been lang, &c.

The valiant chief, the brave Lochiel,
He met Prince Charlie on the dale;
Then, oh, what kindness did prevail
Between the chief and Charlie!

Oh, he's been lang, &c.

Oh, come and quaff along wi' me,

And drink a bumper three times three

To him that's come to set us free.
Huzza! rejoice for Charlie.

Oh, he's been lang, &c.

We daurna brew a peck o' maut,
But Geordie says it is a faut;
And to our kail cannot get saut

For want o' royal Charlie.

Oh, he's been lang, &c.

Now our good king abroad is gone,
A German whelp now fills the throne,
Whelps that are denied by none,
They're brutes compared to Charlie.

Oh, he's been lang, &c.

Now our good king is turn'd awa',

A German whelp now rules us a' ;

And though we're forced against our law,
The right belongs to Charlie.

Oh, he's been lang, &c.

If we had but our Charlie back,
We wadna fear the German's crack,
Wi' a' his thieving hungry pack;
The right belongs to Charlic.

Oh, he's been lang, &c.