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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'.

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 chutlie 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 rising hot,
To see his poor auld mither's pot

Thus dung in staves,
And plundered o' her hindmost groat
By gallows knaves ?

Alas! I'm but a nameless wight,
Trod i' the mire out o' sight !
But could I like Montgomeries fight (81),
Or gab like Boswell (82),
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 carlin greet,
And no get warmly to your feet,

And gar them hear it,
And tell them, with a patriot heat,
Ye winua bear it?

Some o' you nicely ken the laws,
To round the period and pause,
And wi' rhetoric clause on clause
To mak harangues;

Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's
Auld Scotland's wrangs.

| Dempster (83), a true blue Scot I'se warran', Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran (84); And that glib-gabbet Highland baron,

The Laird o' Graham (85); And ane, a chap that's d-mn'd auldfarran, Dundas his name. (86)

Erskine (87), a spunkie Norland billie;
True Campbells, Frederick (88) and Ilay (89);
And Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie;
And monie ithers,

Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully
May'n own for brithers.

See' sodger Hugh, my watchmen stented,
If bardies e'er are represented;

I ken if that your sword were wanted,
Ye'd lend a hand,

But when there's ought to say anent it,
Ye're at a stand. (90)

Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle,
To get auld Scotland back her kettle;
Or faith! I'll wad my now pleugh-pettle,
Ye'll see't ere lang,

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;
(Deil na they never mair do guid,

Play'd her that pliskie!)
And now she's like to run red-wud
About her whisky.

And L-d! if ance they pit her till❜t,
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt,
And durk and pistol at her belt,

She'll tak the streets,

And rin her whittle to the hilt,

I' th' first she meets!

For G-d sake, sirs! then speak her fair,
And straik her cannie wi' the hair,
And to the muckle house repair,

Wi' instant speed,

And strive, wi' a' your wit and lear,
To get remead.

Yon ill-tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox,
May taunt you wi' his jeers and mocks;
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks!
E'en cowe the cadie!

An send him to his dicing box
And sportin' lady.

Tell yon guid bluid o'auld Boconnock's (91),
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks (92),
And drink his health in auld Nanse Tin-
nock's (93)

Nine times a-week,

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And if she promise auld or young
To tak their part,

Tho' by the neck she should be strung,
She'll no desert.

And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,
May still your mither's heart support ye;
Then, though a minister grow dorty,
And kick your place,

Ye'll snap your fingers poor and hearty,
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,

That haunt St. Jamies!
Your humble Poet sings and prays,
While Rab his name is.

POSTCRIPT.

Let half-starv'd slaves in warmer skies
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 aff their whisky.

What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms,
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms!
When wretches range, in famish'd swarms,
The scented groves,

Or hounded forth, dishonour arms
In hungry droves.

Their gun's a burthen on their shoulther;
They downa bide the stink o' powther;
Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither
To stan' or rin,

Till skelp-a shot-they're aff, a'throwther,
To save their skin.

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill,
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.

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him;
Death comes-wi' fearless eye he sees him;
Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him ;
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.

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In faint huzzas !

Sages their solemn een may steek,
And raise a philosophic reek,
And physically causes seek,

In clime and season;
But tell me whisky's name in Greek,
I'll tell the reason.

Scotland, my auld, respected mither!
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;

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"Gie him strong drink, until he wink,
That's sinking in despair;
And liquor guid to fire his bluid,
That's prest w' grief and care;
There let him bouse, and deep carouse,

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er,

Till he forgets his loves or debts.

And minds his griefs no more." (95.)
SOLOMON'S PROVERB, XXXI, 6, 7.

LET other poets raise a fracas,
'Bout vines, and wines, and dru’ken Bacchus,
And crabbit names and stories wrack us,
And grate our lug,

I sing the juice Scotch beer can mak us,
In glass or jug.

Oh thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink;
Whether thro' wimplin' worms thou jink,
Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink,
In glorious faem,

Inspire me, till I lisp and wink,

To sing thy name!

Let husky wheat the haughs adorn,
And aits set up their awnie horn,
And peas and beans, at e'en or morn,
Perfume the plain,

Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn,
Thou king o' grain!

On thee aft Scotland chows her cood,
In souple scones, the wale o' food!
Or tumblin' in the boilin' flood

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The wheels o' life gae down-hill scrievin', Wi' rattlin' glee,

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear:
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care;
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair,
At's weary toil;

Thou even brightens dark Despair
Wi' gloomy smile.

Aft clad in massy, siller weed,

Wi' gentles thou erects thy head (96); Yet humbly kind in time o' need,

The poor man's wine,

His wee drap parritch, or his bread,
Thou kitchens fine. (97)

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

By thee inspir'd,

When gaping they besiege the tents (98),
Are doubly fir'd.

That merry night we get the corn in,
Oh sweetly then thou reams the horn in!
Or reekin' on a new-year morning
In cog or bicker,

And just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,
And gusty sucker!

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath,
And ploughmen gather wi' their graith,
Oh rare! to see thee fizz and freath
I' th' lugget caup!

Then Burnewin comes on like death
At ev'ry chap.

Nae mercy, then, for air or steel ;
The brawnie, bainie, ploughman chiel,
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel,
The strong forehammer,
Till block and studdie ring and reel
Wi' dinsome clamour.

When skirlin' weanies see the light,
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright,
How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight;
Wae worth the name!
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?

Its aye the cheapest lawyer's fee,
To taste the barrel.

Alake! that e'er my Muse has reason
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason!
But monie daily weet their weason
Wi' liquors nice,

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,
O' half his days;

And sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash
To her warst faes.

Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well,
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell,
Poor plackless devils like mysel,
It sets you ill,

Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell,
Or foreign gill.

May gravels round his blather wrench,
And gouts torment him inch by inch,

K

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