An' doucely manage our affairs In parliament, To you à simple poet's prayers Are humbly sent. Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse! Low i' the dust, An' scriechin out prosaic verse, An' like to brust! Tell them who 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' Seotland's drouth, His servants humble: The muckle devil blaw ye south, If ye dissemble ! Does ony great man glunch an' gloom? Speak out, an' never fash your thumb! Let posts an' pensions sink or soom Wi' them wha grant 'em : If honestly they canna come, Far better want 'em. In gath'rin votes you were na slack; An' hum an' haw; But raise your arm, an' tell your crack Before them a'. Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissle, Her mutchkin stoup as toem's a whissle: An' d-mn'd excisemen in a bussle, Triumphant crushin't like a mussel Then on the tither hand present her, A blackguard smuggler right behint her, An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner, Colleaguing join, Picking her pouch as bare as winter Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, But feels his heart's bluid rising hot, To see his poor auld mither's pot Thus dung in staves, An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat By gallows knaves? Alas! I'm but a nameless wight, Trode i' the mire out o' sight! But could I like Montgomeries fight, Or gab like Boswell, There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, An' tie some hose well. God bless your honours, can ye see't, The kind, auld, cantie carlin greet, An' no get warmly to your feet, An' gar them hear it, An' tell them wi' a patriot heat, Ye winna bear it! Some o' you nicely ken the laws, To mak harangues; Then echo thro' saint Stephen's wa's Auld Scotland's wrangs. Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran; Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran* ; An' that glib-gabbet Highland baron, The laird o' Grahamt; An' ane, a chap that's d-mn'd auldfarran, Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; True Campbells, Frederick an' Ilay; An' Livingstone, the bauld sir Willie; An' monie ithers, Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully Might own for brithers. Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle, She'll teach you, wi' a reekin whittle, Anither sang. This while she's been in crankous mood, Her lost militia fir'd her bluid; (Deil na they never mair do guid, Play'd her that pliskie !) An' now she's like to rin red-wud About her whisky. An' L-d, if ance they pit her till't, She'll tak the streets, An' rin her whittle to the hilt, I' th' first she meets! For G-d sake, sirs! then speak her fair, An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, Sir Adam Ferguson. + The present duke of Montrose. E. E. An' to the muckle house repair, Wi' instant speed, An' strive, wi' a' your wit and lear, To get remead. Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks; But gie him't het, my hearty cocks! E'en cowe the caddie! An' send him to his dicing box An' sportin lady. Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks, Could he some commutation broach, I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, He need na fear their foul reproach Nor erudition, Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, The Coalition. Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue; She's just a devil wi' a rung; An' if she promise auld or young To tak their part, Tho' by the neck she should be strung, She'll no desert. An' now, ye chosen five-and-forty, An' kick your place, Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, Before his face. *A worthy old hostess of the author's in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of gude auld Scotch drink. God bless your honours a' your days, That haunt St. Jamie's! Your humble poet sings an' prays While Rab his name is. POSTSCRIPT. Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise; Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, But, blythe and frisky, She eyes her freeborn, martial boys Tak aff their whisky. What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, While fragrance blooms and beauty charms! When wretches range, in famish'd swarms, The scented groves, Or hounded forth, dishonour arms In hungry droves. Their gun's a burden on their shouther; Till skelp-a shot-they're aff, a' throwther, But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, Say, such is royal Georgie's will, An' there's the foe, He has nae thought but how to kill Twa at a blow. Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him; Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him; Wi' bluidy hand a welcome gies him; An' when he fa's, His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him In faint huzzas. |