« AnteriorContinuar »
Yet humbly kind in time o'need,
The poor man's wine ; His wee drap parritch, or his bread,
Thou kitchens fine.
Thou art the life o'public haunts;
By thee inspir'd,
Are doubly fir'd.
That merry night we get the corn'in, O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in ! Oc reekin on a New-year mornin,
In cog or bicker, An' just a wee drap fp'ritual burn in,
An' gufty fucker!
When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, An' Ploughmen gather wi' their graith, O rare ! to see the fizz an' freath,
I'th' lugget caup! Then Burnewin comes on like Death
At ev'ry chap.
Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ; The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel Brings hard owrehip, wi ffurdy wheel
The strong forehammer,
T'il block an' ituddie ring an' reel
Wi' dinsome clamour
When skirlin weanies see the light, Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, How fumbling Cuifs their Dearies flight,
Wae worth the name! Nae howdie 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 barlie-brie
Cement the quarrel! It's aye the cheapest Lawyer's fee
To taste the barrel.
Alake! that e'er my Muse bas reason, To wyte her countrymen wi' treafon! But monie daily wet their weason
Wi' liquors nice, An' hardly, in a winter season,
E'er spier their price.
Wae worth that brandy, burning trash! Fell fource o' monie a pain an' brash! Twins monie a poor, doylt, druken hah
O’half his days; An' sends, belidé, auld Scotland's cash
To her warft faes.
Ye Scots, wha with auld Scotland well,
*It sets you ill, Wir bitter, dearthfu' wincs to mell,
Or foreign gill
May gravels round his blather wrench, An' gouts torment him, inch by inch, Wha’ twifts his gruntle wi' à glunch
O sour disdain, Out owre a glafs o’Whisky Punch
Wi honeft men !
O Whisky, soul o' plays an' pranks !
Are my poor verses ! Thou comes-
they rattle i' their ranks
At ither's a -!
Thee Ferintoh, o fadiy lost ! Scotland lament frae coaft to coaft! Now cholic-grips, an' barkin hoaft
May kill us a'; For loyal Forbes' charter'd hoaft
Is ta en awa!
Thae curst horse-leeches o' th’ Excise, Wba mak the Whisky tells their prize!
Haud up thy han' Deil! ance, twice, thrice !
There, feize the blinkers An' bake them up in brinstane pies
For poord--o'd drinkers.
Fortune, if thou'll but gie me still
Tak' a'the reft,
Directs the best.
EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER,
To the Right Honourable and Honourable, the Scotch
Representatives in the House of Conmons..
Deares of Diftillation! lalt and belt!,
PARODY ON MILTON.
E Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires,
Are humbly sent.
Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse!
Low i the duft,
An' like to brust!
* This was wrote befo:e the Act anent the Scotch Distilleries, of leflion 1786; for which Scotland and the Author reTurn their most g: ateful tharks.