Tell them whae hae the chief direction, Scotland an' me's in great affliction, E'er fin' they laid that curst restriction, On Aquavita; An' rouze them up to ftrong conviction, An' move their pity. Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth The honeft open, naked truth; Tell him o' mine an' Scotland s drouth, His fervants humble; The muckle devil blaw ye fouth, If ye diffemble! Does oney great man glunch an' gloom? Wi' them wha grant 'em : If honeftly they canna come, Far better want 'em. In gathrin votes, you were na flack; Now ftand 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 Eefore them a'. Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrifsle Her mutchkin-ftoup as toom's a whifsle; An' d-mn d Excifenen in a bufsle, Seizen a fell, Triumphant crufhin't like a muffel Or lampit shell. Then on the tither hand prefent 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 rifing hot, To fee his poor auld Mither's pot, Thus dung in Aaves, An' plunder'd o' her hindmoft groat By gallows knaves? Alas! I'm but a nameless wight, Trode i' the mire out o' fight! But could I like Montgomeries fight, Or gab like Bofwell, An' tie fome hofe well. There's fome faik-necks I wad draw tight, God bless your Honours, can ye fee't, The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet, An' no get warmly to your feet, An' tell them, wi' a patriot heat, Ye winna bear it! Some o' you nicely ken'the laws, To mak harrangues; Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's Auld Scotland's wrangs. Dempfler, a true-blue Scot I'fe warran; The Laird o' Graham; An' ane, a chap that's d-mn'd auldfarran, Dundas his name. Erskine, a fpunkie Norlane billie; True Campbells, Frederick an' Ilay; An' Liviftone, the bauld Sir Willie; An' monie ithers, Whom auld Demoahenes or Tully Might own for brithers. Aroufe, my boys! exert your mettle, Ye'll fee't or lang, She'll teach you, wi' a reekin whittle, Anither fang. This while fhe's been in crankous mood, Her loft Militia fir'd her bluid; (Deil na they never mair do guid, Play d her that pliskie ;) An' now he's like to rin red-wud About her Whisky. An' L--d, if ance they pit her till t, Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, An' durk an' pistol at her belt, She'll tak the streets, And rin her whittle to the hilt, I' th' firit fhe meets! For G-d fake, Sirs! then fpeak her fair, An' ftraik her cannie wi the hair, An' to the muckle house repair, Wi' inftant fpeed, An' ftrive 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 cadie! An' fend him to his dicing box An' fportin lady. Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's, Ill be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks, An' driek his health in auld Nanfe Tinocks * Nine times a week, If he fome scheme, like tea an' Winnocks, Wad kindly feck. Could he fome commutation broach, 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 the promise auld or young To take their part. Tho' by the neck the fhould be ftrung, She'll no defert. An' now, ye chofen Five-and-Forty, May ftill your mother's heart fupport ye; Then tho' a Minifter grow dorty, An kick your place, Ye'll fuap your fingers, poor and hearty, God bless your Honors, a' your days, Wi fowps o' kail an' brats o' claise, * A worthy old Hoflefs of the Author's in Mauchline, where he fometimes ftudies Politicks over a glafs of gude auld Scotch Drink. |