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How fumlin' cuifs their dearies slight;
Wae worth the name!

Nae how die gets a social night,
Or plack frae them.

When neebors anger at a plea,
An' just as wud as wud can be,
How easy can the barley bree
Cement the quarrel;

It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee,
To taste the barrel.

Alake! that e'er my Muse had reason
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason;
But monie daily weet their weason
Wi' liquors nice,

An' hardly, in a winter's season,
E'er spier her price.

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash,
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash!
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drunken hash,
O' half his days;

An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash
To her warst faes.

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well!
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
Poor plackless devils like mysel'!
It sets you ill,

W' bitter, deathfu' wines to mell,

Or foreign gill.

May gravels round his blather wrench,
An' gouts torment him inch by inch,

Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch
O' sour disdain,

Out owre a glass o' whiskey-punch
Wi' honest men.

O Whiskey! soul o' plays an' pranks!
Accept a Bardie's humble thanks!
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks
Are my poor verses!

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Thee, Ferintosh! O sadly lost!
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast!
Now colic grips, and barkin hoast,
May kill us a';

For loyal Forbes' chartered boast
Is ta'en awa'!

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise,
Wha mak the whiskey stells their prize!
Haud up thy han', Deil! ance, twice, thrice!
There, seize the blinkers!
An' bake them up in brunstane pies
For poor d-n'd drinkers.

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still
Hale breeks, a scone, an' whiskey gill,
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will,
Tak a' the rest,

An deal't about as thy blind skill
Directs thee best.

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YE Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires,

Wha represent our burghs an' shires,
An' doucely manage our affairs

In parliament;

To you a simple Poet's prayers
Are humbly sent.

Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse!

Your honors' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce,
To see her sittin on her a—e,

Low i' the dust,

An' scriechin 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
On Aquavitæ ;

An' rouse them up to strong conviction,

An' move their pity.

* This was written before the act anent the Scotch distilleries, of session 1786; for which Scotland and the author return their most grate ful thanks.

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 Deil blaw ye south,
If ye dissemble!

Does onie 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❜ring 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
Before them a'.

Paint Scotland greeting owre her thrissle;
Her muchkin stoup as toom's a whissle;
An' d-mn'd excisemen in a bussle,
Seizin a stell,

Triumphant crushin't like a mussel
Or lampit shell.

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,
Of a kind coin.

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, an' 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 Honors, 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 round the period an' pause,
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause

To mak harangues;

Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's
Auld Scotland's wrangs

*

Dempster, a true-blue Scot l'se warran;
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran ;
An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron,
The Laird o' Graham; †

* Sir Adam Ferguson. The present Duke of Montrose-(1800.)

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