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Yet humbly kind in time o'need,

The poor man's wine ; His wee drap parritch, or his bread,

Thou kitchens fine.

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Thou art the life o'public haunts;
But thee, what were our fairs and'rants ?
Ev'n godly meetings o' the faunts,

By thee inspir'd,
When gaping they besiege the tents,

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,
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
Poor plackless devils like mysell,

*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 !
Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks!
Whan wanting thee, what tuneless cranks?

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
Hale breeks, a scone, an whiskey gill,
An' rowth o'rhyme to rave at will,

Tak' a'the reft,
An' deal't about as thy blind skill

Directs the best.

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THE AUTHOR's

EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER,

To the Right Honourable and Honourable, the Scotch

Representatives in the House of Conmons..

Deares of Diftillation! lalt and belt!,
-How art thou loft!

PARODY ON MILTON.

Y

’ ,

E Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires,
Wha represent our broughs an' shires,
An' doucely manage our affairs

In Parliament,
To you a fimple Bardie's prayers

Are humbly sent.

Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse!
Your Honour's hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce,
To see her fittin on her a-

Low i the duft,
An' fciiechen out prosaic verse,

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.

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