| |
| YE Irish lords, ye knights an’ squires, | |
| Wha represent our brughs an’ shires, | |
| An’ doucely manage our affairs | |
| In parliament, | |
| To you a simple poet’s pray’rs | 5 |
| Are humbly sent. | |
| |
| Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse! | |
| Your Honours’ hearts wi’ grief ’twad pierce, | |
| To see her sittin on her arse | |
| Low i’ the dust, | 10 |
| And scriechinh out prosaic verse, | |
| An like to brust! | |
| |
| Tell them wha hae the chief direction, | |
| Scotland an’ me’s in great affliction, | |
| E’er sin’ they laid that curst restriction | 15 |
| On aqua-vit&æ; | |
| An’ rouse them up to strong conviction, | |
| An’ move their pity. | |
| |
| Stand forth an’ tell yon Premier youth | |
| The honest, open, naked truth: | 20 |
| Tell him o’ mine an’ Scotland’s drouth, | |
| His servants humble: | |
| The muckle deevil blaw you south | |
| If ye dissemble! | |
| |
| Does ony great man glunch an’ gloom? | 25 |
| Speak out, an’ never fash your thumb! | |
| Let posts an’ pensions sink or soom | |
| Wi’ them wha grant them; | |
| If honestly they canna come, | |
| Far better want them. | 30 |
| |
| In gath’rin votes you were na slack; | |
| Now stand as tightly by your tack: | |
| Ne’er claw your lug, an’ fidge your back, | |
| An’ hum an’ haw; | |
| But raise your arm, an’ tell your crack | 35 |
| Before them a’. | |
| |
| Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle; | |
| Her mutchkin stowp as toom’s a whissle; | |
| An’ d—mn’d excisemen in a bussle, | |
| Seizin a stell, | 40 |
| Triumphant crushin’t like a mussel, | |
| Or limpet shell! | |
| |
| Then, on the tither hand present her— | |
| A blackguard smuggler right behint her, | |
| An’ cheek-for-chow, a chuffie vintner | 45 |
| Colleaguing join, | |
| Picking her pouch as bare as winter | |
| Of a’ kind coin. | |
| |
| Is there, that bears the name o’ Scot, | |
| But feels his heart’s bluid rising hot, | 50 |
| 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, | 55 |
| Trode i’ the mire out o’ sight? | |
| But could I like Montgomeries fight, | |
| Or gab like Boswell, 2 | |
| There’s some sark-necks I wad draw tight, | |
| An’ tie some hose well. | 60 |
| |
| 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 | 65 |
| Ye winna bear it? | |
| |
| Some o’ you nicely ken the laws, | |
| To round the period an’ pause, | |
| An’ with rhetoric clause on clause | |
| To mak harangues; | 70 |
| Then echo thro’ Saint Stephen’s wa’s | |
| Auld Scotland’s wrangs. | |
| |
| Dempster, 3 a true blue Scot I’se warran’; | |
| Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran; 4 | |
| An’ that glib-gabbit Highland baron, | 75 |
| The Laird o’ Graham; 5 | |
| An’ ane, a chap that’s damn’d aulfarran’, | |
| Dundas his name: 6 | |
| |
| Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; 7 | |
| True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay; 8 | 80 |
| An’ Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie; 9 | |
| An’ mony ithers, | |
| Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully | |
| Might own for brithers. | |
| |
| See sodger Hugh, 10 my watchman stented, | 85 |
| If poets e’er are represented; | |
| I ken if that your sword were wanted, | |
| Ye’d lend a hand; | |
| But when there’s ought to say anent it, | |
| Ye’re at a stand. | 90 |
| |
| Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle, | |
| To get auld Scotland back her kettle; | |
| Or faith! I’ll wad my new pleugh-pettle, | |
| Ye’ll see’t or lang, | |
| She’ll teach you, wi’ a reekin whittle, | 95 |
| 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!) | 100 |
| An’ now she’s like to rin red-wud | |
| About her whisky. | |
| |
| An’ Lord! if ance they pit her till’t, | |
| Her tartan petticoat she’ll kilt, | |
| An’durk an’ pistol at her belt, | 105 |
| She’ll tak the streets, | |
| An’ rin her whittle to the hilt, | |
| I’ the first she meets! | |
| |
| For God sake, sirs! then speak her fair, | |
| An’ straik her cannie wi’ the hair, | 110 |
| An’ to the muckle house repair, | |
| Wi’ instant speed, | |
| An’ strive, wi’ a’ your wit an’ lear, | |
| To get remead. | |
| |
| Yon ill-tongu’d tinkler, Charlie Fox, | 115 |
| May taunt you wi’ his jeers and mocks; | |
| But gie him’t het, my hearty cocks! | |
| E’en cowe the cadie! | |
| An’ send him to his dicing box | |
| An’ sportin’ lady. | 120 |
| |
| Tell you guid bluid o’ auld Boconnock’s, 11 | |
| I’ll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, | |
| An’ drink his health in auld Nance Tinnock’s 12 | |
| Nine times a-week, | |
| If he some scheme, like tea an’ winnocks, | 125 |
| Was kindly seek. | |
| |
| Could he some commutation broach, | |
| I’ll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, | |
| He needna fear their foul reproach | |
| Nor erudition, | 130 |
| 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 | 135 |
| To tak their part, | |
| Tho’ by the neck she should be strung, | |
| She’ll no desert. | |
| |
| And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, | |
| May still you mither’s heart support ye; | 140 |
| Then, tho’a minister grow dorty, | |
| An’ kick your place, | |
| Ye’ll snap your gingers, poor an’ hearty, | |
| Before his face. | |
| |
| God bless your Honours, a’ your days, | 145 |
| Wi’ sowps o’ kail and brats o’ claise, | |
| In spite o’ a’ the thievish kaes, | |
| That haunt St. Jamie’s! | |
| Your humble poet sings an’ prays, | |
| While Rab his name is. | 150 |
| |
POSTSCRIPT
LET half-starv’d slaves in warmer skies | |
| See future wines, rich-clust’ring, rise; | |
| Their lot auld Scotland ne’re envies, | |
| But, blythe and frisky, | |
| She eyes her freeborn, martial boys | 155 |
| 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; | 160 |
| Or, hounded forth, dishonour arms | |
| In hungry droves! | |
| |
| Their gun’s a burden on their shouther; | |
| They downa bide the stink o’ powther; | |
| Their bauldest thought’s a hank’ring swither | 165 |
| To stan’ or rin, | |
| Till skelp—a shot—they’re aff, a’throw’ther, | |
| To save their skin. | |
| |
| But bring a Scotchman frae his hill, | |
| Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, | 170 |
| Say, such is royal George’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; | 175 |
| 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. | 180 |
| |
| Sages their solemn een may steek, | |
| An’ raise a philosophic reek, | |
| An’ physically causes seek, | |
| In clime an’ season; | |
| But tell me whisky’s name in Greek | 185 |
| I’ll tell the reason. | |
| |
| Scotland, my auld, respected mither! | |
| Tho’ whiles ye moistify your leather, | |
| Till, whare ye sit on craps o’ heather, | |
| Ye tine your dam; | 190 |
| Freedom an’ whisky gang thegither! | |
| Take aff your dram! | |
