That merry night we get the corn in, An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, I' th' lugget caup! Then Burnewin' comes on like death Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel; When skirlin weanies see the light, Nae howdie gets a social night, When neebors anger at a plea, Cement the quarrel! It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, To taste the barrel. 1 Burnewin-burn-the-wind-the Blacksmith-an appro priate title. E. Alake! that e'er my Muse has reason An' hardly, in a winter's season, Wae worth that brandy, burning trash! An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash To her warst faes. Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland weel Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, May gravels round his blather wrench, Out-owre a glass o' whisky punch O Whisky! saul o' plays an' pranks! When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks Thou comes Are my poor verses! they rattle i' their ranks At ither's a-s! Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost! For loyal Forbes' charter'd boast Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, An' bake them up in brunstane pies For poor d-n'd drinkers. Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still An' deal't about as thy blind skill THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER' TO THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. YE Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires, An' doucely manage our affairs In parliament, To you a simple Poet's prayers Are humbly sent. 1 This was written before the act anent the Scotch Distilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and the Author return their most grateful thanks. Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse! Your Honors heart wi' grief 'twad pierce, To see her sittin on her a Low i' the dust, An' scriechin out prosaic verse, An' like to brust! Tell them wha hae the chief direction, An' rouse them up to strong conviction, Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth, The honest, open, naked truth; Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth, His servants humble: The muckle devil blaw ye south, If ye dissemble! Does ony great man glunch an' gloom? Wi' them wha grant 'em: If honestly they canna come, Far better want 'em. In gath'ring votes you werena slack; But raise your arm, an' tell your crack Before them a'. Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissle; Triumphant crushin 't like a mussel Then on the tither hand present her, Picking her pouch as bare as winter Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, But feels his heart's bluid rising hot, auld Mither's pot To see his poor Thus dung in staves, An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat By gallows knaves? Alas! I'm but a nameless wight, There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, An' tie some hose well. God bless your Honors, can ye see't, An' gar them hear it, An' tell them wi' a patriot heat, VOL. I. Ye winna bear it? D |