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THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY.
Yet, al beneath the unrivall'd rose,
| Does ony great man glunch and gloom ? The lowly daisy sweetly blows;
Speak out, and never fas your thoom ! Tho' large the forest's monarch throws Let posts and pensions sink or soom . His army shade,
W' them wha grant 'em: Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, If honestly they canna come, Adown the glade.
Far better want 'em. Then never murmur nor repine ;
In gathrin' votes you were na slack; Strive in thy humble sphere to shine;
Now stand as tightly by your tack; And, trust me, not Potosi's mine,
Ne'er claw your lug, and fidge your back, Nor king's regard,
And hum and haw;
But raise your arm, and tell your crack
Before them a'.
Paint Scotland greeting ower her thrissle, Preserve the dignity of man,
Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle; With soul erect;
And d-mn'd excisemen in a bussle,
Seizin' a stell,
crushin't like a mussel And wear thou this”-she solemn said,
Or lampit shell. And bound the holly round my head:
Then on the tither hand present her, The polish'd leaves, and berries red,
A blackguard smuggler, right behint her, Did rustling play;
And cheek-for-chow, a chutiie vintner,
Picking her pouch as bare as winter
Of a' kind coin.
Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, Thr Antljar's Earnest Cry and Prayrr But feels his heart's bluid rising hot,
To see his poor auld mither's pot TO THE SCOTCII REPRESENTATIVES IN
Tlius dung in staves,
By gallows knaves ?
Trod i'the mire out o'sight?
But could I like Montgomeries fight (81), And doucely manage onr affairs
Or gab like Boswell (82),"
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, i parliament, To you a simple Bardie's prayers
And tie some hose well. · Are humbly sent.
God bless your honours, can ye see't,
The kind, auld, cantie carlin greet,
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, Scotland and me's in great affliction,
And wi' rhetoric clause on clause
To mak harangues;
Then echo thro' Saint Stephen'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 inuckle 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 lonours 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-starv'd slaves in warmer skies (Deil na they never mair do yuid,
See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise;
But blythe and frisky,
See eyes her freeborn, martial boys
Tak aff their whisky. Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt,
What tho' their Pliabus kinder warms, And durk and pistol at her belt,
While frayrance blooms and beauty charms! She'll tak the streets,
When wretches range, in fainish'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 hauk'ring swither And strive, wi' a' your wit and lear,
To stan' or rin,
Till skelpa 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. 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 le sees him; nock's (93)
| Wi' bluidy han’ a welcome yies him ; Nine times a-week,
And when he fa's, If he some scheme, like tea and winnocks (94), ) His latest dranght o' breathin' lea's him Wad kindly seek.
In faint huzzas !
Sages their solemn een may steek,
In clime and season ;
I'll tell the reason. Auld Scotland lias 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 battries, 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;
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 wink,
Or reekin' on a new-year morning
In cog or bicker,
And just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in,
And gusty gucker!
When Vulcan gies liis bellows breath, And minds his griefs no more." (95.) And ploughmen gather wi' their graith,
SOLOMON'S PROVERB, XXXi, 6, 7. Oh rare! to see thee fizz and freath LET other poets raise a fracas,
l' th’lugget caup! 'Bout vines, and wines, and dru’ken Bacchus,
Then Burnewin comes on like death
At ev'ry chap.
Nae mercy, then, for air or steel;
Brings hard owrehip, wi' sturdy wheel, Oh thou, my Muse! guid auld Scotch drink;
The strong forehammer, Whether thro' wimplin' worms thou jink,
Till block and studdie ring and reel Or, richly brown, ream o'er the brink,
Wi' dinsome clamour. ous faen,
When skirlin' seanies see the light,
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright,
How fumblin'cuifs their dearies slight; Let husky wheat the hauglis adorn,
Wae worth the name! And aits set up their awuie 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 o' food !
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, 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 o' 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 we'l,
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell, Aft clad in massy, siller weed,
Poor plackless devils like mysel, Wi' gentles thou erects thy head (96);
It sets you ill,
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell,
Or foreign gill.
May gravels round his blather wrench,