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Does ony great man glunch and gloom?
Speak out, and never fas your thoom !
Let posts and pensions sink or soom

W' them wha grant 'em :
If honestly they canna come,

Far better want 'em.

In gathrin' votes you were na slack;
Now stand as tightly by your tack;
Ne'er claw your lug, and fidge your back,

And hum and haw;
But raise your arm, and tell your crack

Before them a'.

Yet, all beneath the unrivall'd rose,
The lowly daisy sweetly blows;
Tho' large the forest's monarch throws

His army shade,

the juicy hawthorn grows,

Adown the glade.
Then never murmur nor repine;
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine;
And, trust me, not Potosi's mine,

Nor king's regard,
Can give a bliss o’ermatching thine,

A rustic bard.
To give my counsels all in one-
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan;
Preserve the dignity of man,

With soul erect;
And trust, the universal plan

Will all protect.
And wear thou this " --she solemn said,
And bound the holly round my head :
The polish'd leaves, and berries red,

Did rustling play;
And, like a passing thought, she fled

In light away.

Paint Scotland greeting ower her thrissle,
Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle;
And 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,
And cheek-for-chow, a chutiie vintner,

Colleaguing join,
Picking her pouch as bare as winter

Of a kind coin.

Is there, that bears the name o' Scot,
The Anthur's Earnest Cry and Prairr

But feels his heart's bluid rising hot,
To see his



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

God bless your honours, can ye see't,
Alas! my roopit Muse is hearse!

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,
And scrieclun' out prosaic verse,

Ye winua bear it ?
And like to brust!

Some o' you nicely ken the laws,
Tell them wha hae the chief direction,

To round the period and pause, Scotland and me's in great affliction,

And wi' rhetoric clause ou clause
E’er sin' they laid that curst restriction

To mak harangues ;
On aqua vitæ ;

Then echo thro' Saint Steplien's wa's
And rouse them up to strong conviction,

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
True Campbells, Frederick (88) and Ilay (89);

To tak their part,
Aud Livingstone, the banld Sir Willie; Tho' by the neck she should be strung,
And monie ithers,

She'll no desert,
Whcm auld Demosthenes or Tully

And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,
May'n own for brithers.

May still your mither's heart support ye;
See' sodger Hugh, my watchmen stented, Then, though a minister grow dorty,
If bardies e'er are represented;

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,
But when there's ought to say anent it,

God bless your honours a' your days,
Ye're at a stand. (90)

Wi' sowps o' kail and brats o'claise,
Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle,

In spite o' a'the thievish kaes, To get auld Scotland back her kettle ;

That haunt St. Jamies!
Or faith! I'll wad my now pleugh-pettle, Your humble Poet sings and prays,
Yell see't ere lang,

While Rab his name is.
She'll teach you wi' a reekin' whittle,
Anither sang.

This while she's been in crankus mood,
Her lost militia fir'd her bluid;

Let half-stary'd slaves in warmer skies (Deil na they never mair do guid,

See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise;
Play'd her that pliskie!)

Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,
And now she's like to run red-wud

But blythe and frisky,
About her whisky.

See eyes her freeborn, martial boys

Tak atf their whisky.
And L-d! if ance they pit her till't,
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt,

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,
I'th' first she meets !

Or hounded forth, dishonour arms
For G-d sake, sirs ! then speak her fair,

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;
Wi' instant speed,

Their bauldest thought's a hank’ring swither And strive, wi' a' your wit and lear,

To stan' or rin,
To get remead.

Till skelp~~a shot—they're aff, a'throwther, Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox,

To save their skin.
May taunt you wi' his jeers and mocks; But bring a Scotsman frae his hill,
But gie him’t het, my hearty cocks !

Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,
E'en cowe the cadie!

Say such is royal George's will,
An send him to his dicing box

And there's the foe,
And sportin' lady.

He has nae thought but how to kill

Twa at a blow.
Tell yon guid bluid o’auld Boconnock's (91),
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks (92), Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;
And drink his health in auld Nanse Tin-Death comes--wi' fearless eye he sees him;
nock's (93)

Wi' bluidy han' a welcome yies him l;
Nine times a-week,

And when he fa's,
If he some scheme, like tea and winnocks (94), His latest draught o' breathin' lea's him
Wad kindly seek.

In faint huzzas !
Could he some commutation broach,

Sages their solemn een may steek,
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, And raise a philosophic reek,
He'll need na fear their foul reproach, And physically causes seek,
Nor erudition,

In clime and season;
Yon mixtie-maxtie queer hotch-potch, But tell me whisky's name in Greek,
The Coalition.

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, ,

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I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries,
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb;

Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather Thou art the life o' public haunts;
Ye tine your dam;

But thee, what were our fairs and rants ?
Freedom and whisky gang thegither!- Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts,
Take aif your dram!

By thee inspir’d,
When gaping they besiege the tents (98),

Are doubly fir'd.
Sratch Drink.

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 liquor guid to fire his bluid,
That's prest w grief and care;

And just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, There let him bouse, and deep carouse,

And gusty sucker!
Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,
Till he forgets his loves or debts.

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.
And crabbit names and stories wrack us,
And grate our lug,

Nae mercy, then, for air or steel ;
I sing the juice Scotch beer can mak us, ,

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.
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink,
In glorious faein,

When skirlin' weanies see the light,
Inspire me, till I lisp and wink,

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,
and beans, at e'en or morn,

Or plack frae them.
Perfume the plain,

When neebors anger at a plea,
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,

And just as wud as wud can be.
Thou king o' grain !

How easy can the barley-bree
On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,

Cement the quarrel ? In souple scones, the wale о'food !

Its aye the cheapest lawyer's fee,
Or tumblin' in the boilin' flood

To taste the barrel,
Wi' kail and beef;

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,
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine and grievin';

E'er spier her price.
But, oil'd by thee,
The wheels o‘life gae down-hill scrievin',

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash !
Wi' rattlin' glee,

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.
At's weary toil;
Thou even brightens dark Despair

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well,
Wi' gloomy smile.

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,
Yet humbly kind in time o' need,

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,


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