The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer

Dearest of Distillation! last and best————How art thou lost!Parody on Milton.

Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires,Wha represent our brughs an' shires,An' doucely manage our affairsIn Parliament,To you a simple Bardie's prayersAre humbly sent.

Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse;Your Honours' heart wi' grief 'twad pierce,To see her sitten on her a—Low i' the dust,An' scriechin out prosaic verse,An' like to brust!

Tell them wha hae the chief direction,Scotland an' me's in great affliction,E'er sin' they laid that curst restrictionOn Aquavitæ.An' rouse them up to strong conviction,An' move their pity.

Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth,The honest, open, naked truth:Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth,His servants humble:The muckle devil blaw ye south,If ye dissemble!

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom?Speak out, an' never fash your thumb!Let posts an' pensions sink or soomWi' them wha grant 'em:If honestly they canna come,Far better want 'em.

In gath'rin votes you were na slack;Now stand 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 crackBefore them a'.

Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrisstle;Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle;An' damn'd Excisemen in a bussle,Seizin a Stell,Triumphant crushin't like a musselOr lampit shell.

Then on the tither hand present her,A blackguard Smuggler right behint her,An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie Vintner,Colleaguing join.Picking her pouch as bare as WinterOf 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 potThus dung in staves,An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groatBy gallows knaves?

Alas! I'm but a nameless wight,Trode i' the mire out o' sight!But could I like Montgomeries fight,Or gab like Boswell,There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight,An' tie some hose well.

God bless your Honours, can ye see't,The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet,An' no get warmly to your feet,An' gar them hear it?An' tell them, wi' a patriot-heat,Ye winna bear it!

Some o' you nicely ken the laws,To round the period an' pause,An' with rhetoric clause on clauseTo mak harangues;Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa'sAuld Scotland's wrangs.

Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran;Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran;An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron,The Laird o' Graham;An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran,Dundas his name.

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie;True Campbells, Frederick an' Ilay;An' Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie;An' monie ithers,Whom auld Demosthenes or TullyMight own for brithers.

Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle,To get auld Scotland back her kettle;Or faith! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle,Ye'll see't or lang,She'll teach you, wi' a reekin whittle,Anither sang.

This while she's been in crankous mood,Her lost militia fir'd her bluid;(Deil na they never mair do guid,Play'd her that pliskie!)An' now she's like to rin red-wudAbout her Whisky.

An' Lord, 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,An' rin her whittle to the hilt,I' th' first she meets!

For God sake, Sirs! then speak her fair,An' straik her cannie wi' the hair,An' to the muckle house repair,Wi' instant speed,An' strive, 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' send him to his dicing-boxAn' sportin lady.

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock'sI'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock'sNine times a-week,If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks,Wad kindly seek.

Could he some commutation broach,I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,He need na fear their foul reproachNor 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 she promise auld or youngTo tak their part,Tho' by the neck she should be strung,She'll no desert.

An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,May still your Mither's heart support ye;Then, though a Minister grow dorty,An' kick your place,Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty,Before his face.

God bless your Honours a' your days,Wi' sowps o' kail an' brats o' claise,In spite o' a' the thievish kaesThat haunt St. Jamie's!Your humble Bardie sings an' praysWhile Rab his name is.

POSTSCRIPT.

Let half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skiesSee future wines, rich-clust'ring, rise;Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies,But blyth an' frisky,She eyes her free-born, martial boys,Tak aff their Whisky.

What tho' their Phœbus kinder warms,While fragrance blooms an' beauty charms!When wretches range, in famish'd swarms,The scented groves,Or hounded forth, dishonour armsIn hungry droves.

Their gun's a burden on their shouther;They downa bide the stink o' powther;Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring switherTo stan' or rin,Till skelp—a shot—they're aff, a' throwther,To save their skin.

But bring a Scotshman frae his hill,Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,Say, such is royal George's will,An' there's the foe,He has nae thought but how to killTwa 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;An' when he fa's,His latest draught o' breathin lea'es himIn faint huzzas.

Sages their solemn een may steek,An' raise a philosophic reek,An' physically causes seek,In clime an' season;But tell me Whisky's name in Greek,I'll tell the reason.

Scotland, my auld, respected Mither!Tho' whyles ye moistify your leather,Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather,Ye tine your dam;Freedom and Whisky 'gang thegither!Tak aff your dram!