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Does ony great man glunch and gloom?
W' them wha grant 'em :
Far better want 'em.
In gathrin' votes you were na slack;
And hum and haw;
Before them a'.
Yet, all beneath the unrivall'd rose,
His army shade,
the juicy hawthorn grows,
Adown the glade.
Nor king's regard,
A rustic bard.
With soul erect;
Will all protect.
Did rustling play;
In light away.
Paint Scotland greeting ower her thrissle,
Seizin' a stell,
Or lampit shell.
Of a kind coin.
Is there, that bears the name o' Scot,
But feels his heart's bluid rising hot,
auld mither's pot TO THE SCOTCII REPRESENTATIVES IN
Thus dung in staves, THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. (79) And plundered o' her hindmost groat
By gallows knaves ? " Dearest of distillation ! last and best! Ilow art thou lost!"-PARODY OX MILTON.
Alas! I'm but a nameless wight,
Trod i' the mire out o' sight! YE Irish lords, ye knights and squires,
But could I like Montgomeries fight (81), Wha represent our brughs and shires, And doucely manage our affairs
Or gab like Boswell (82), In parliament,
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight,
And tie some hose well.
God bless your honours, can ye see't,
The kind, auld, cantie carliu greet, Your honour's heart wi' grief 'twad pierce' And no get warmly to your feet, To see her sittin' on her a
gar them hear it, Low i' the dust,
And tell them, with a patriot heat,
Ye winua bear it ?
Some o' you nicely ken the laws,
To round the period and pause, Scotland and me's in great affliction,
And wi' rhetoric clause ou clause
To mak harangues ;
Then echo thro' Saint Steplien's wa's
Auld Scotland's wrangs. And move their pity. Stand forth, and tell yon Premier youth (80), Dempster (83), a true blue Scot I'se warran', The honest, open, naked truth:
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran (84); Tell him o' mine and Scotland's drouth, And that glib-gabbet Highland baron, His servants humble :
The Laird o' Graham (85); The muckle devil blaw ye south,
And ane, a chap that's d-mn'd auldfarran, If ye dissemble!
Dundas his name. (86)
Erskine (87), a spunkie Norland billie; And if she promise auld or young
To tak their part,
She'll no desert,
And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,
May still your mither's heart support ye;
And kick your place, I ken if that your sword were wanted, Ye'll snap your fingers poor and hearty, Ye'd lend a hand,
Before his face,
God bless your honours a' your days,
Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o'claise,
In spite o' a'the thievish kaes, To get auld Scotland back her kettle ;
That haunt St. Jamies!
While Rab his name is.
Let half-stary'd slaves in warmer skies (Deil na they never mair do guid,
See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise;
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,
But blythe and frisky,
See eyes her freeborn, martial boys
Tak atf their whisky.
What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, And durk and pistol at her belt,
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms! She'll tak the streets,
When wretches range, in famish'd swarms, And rin her wlittle to the hilt,
The scented groves,
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms
In hungry droves. And straik her cannie wi' the hair,
Their gun's a burthen on their shoulther; And to the muckle house repair,
They downa bide the stink o powther;
Their bauldest thought's a hank’ring swither And strive, wi' a' your wit and lear,
To stan' or rin,
Till skelp~~a shot—they're aff, a'throwther, Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox,
To save their skin.
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,
Say such is royal George's will,
And there's the foe,
He has nae thought but how to kill
Twa at a blow.
Wi' bluidy han' a welcome yies him l;
And when he fa's,
In faint huzzas !
Sages their solemn een may steek,
In clime and season;
I'll tell the reason. Auld Scotland las a raucle tongue;
Scotland, my auld, respected mither! She's just a devil wi' a rung;
Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather, ,
I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries,
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather Thou art the life o' public haunts;
But thee, what were our fairs and rants ?
By thee inspir’d,
Are doubly fir'd.
That merry night we get the corn in,
Oh sweetly then thou reams the horn in! “Gie him strong drink, until he wiak, Or reekin' on a new-year morning That's sinking in despair;
In cog or bicker,
And just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, There let him bouse, and deep carouse,
And gusty sucker!
When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, And minds his griefs no inore." (95.)
And ploughmen gather wi' their graith, SOLOMON'S PROVERB, xxxi, 6, 7. Oh rare! to see thee fizz and freath
['th’lugget caup! LET other poets raise a fracas,
Then Burnewin comes on like death 'Bout vines, and wines, and dru’ken Bacchus,
At ev'ry chap.
Nae mercy, then, for air or steel ;
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel, In glass or jug.
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, Oh thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink; Till block and studdie ring and reel
The strong forehammer, Whether thro' wimplin' worms thou jink,
Wi' dinsome clamour.
When skirlin' weanies see the light,
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright, To sing thy name!
How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight;
Wae worth the name! Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, And aits set up their awnie horn,
Nae howdie gets a social night,
Or plack frae them.
When neebors anger at a plea,
And just as wud as wud can be.
How easy can the barley-bree
Cement the quarrel ? In souple scones, the wale о'food !
Its aye the cheapest lawyer's fee,
To taste the barrel,
Alake! that e'er my Muse has reason But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, To wyte her countrymen wi' treason! There thou shines chief,
But monie daily weet their weason Food fills the wame, and keeps us livin’;
Wi' liquors nice, Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin',
And hardly, in a winter's season,
E'er spier her price.
Wae worth that brandy, burning trash !
Fell source o' monie a pain and brash !
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drucken hash, Thou clears the head a' doited Lear:
O' half his days; Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care;
And sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash Thou strings the nerves o’ Labour sair,
To her warst faes.
Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well,
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
Poor plackless devils like mysel, Aft clad in massy, siller weed,
It sets you ill, Wi' gentles thou erects thy head (96);
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell,
Or foreign gill.
man's wine, His wee drap paritch, or 'nis bread,
May gravels round his blather wrench, Thou kitchens fine. (97) And gouts torment him inch by inch,