LONG life, my Lord, an health be yours,
Unskaithed by hungerd Highland boors;
Lord grant me nae duddie, desperate beggar,
Wi dirk, claymore, and rusty trigger,
May twin auld Scotland o a life
She likesas butchers like a knife.
Faith you and Applecross were right
To keep the Highland hounds in sight:
I doubt na! they wad bid nae better,
Than let them ance out owre the water,
Then up among thae lakes and seas,
Theyll mak what rules and laws they please:
Some daring Hancocke, or a Franklin,
May set their Highland bluid a-ranklin;
Some Washington again may head them,
Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them,
Till (God knows what may be effected
When by such heads and hearts directed),
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire
May to Patrician rights aspire!
Nae sage North now, nor sager Sackville,
To watch and premier oer the pack vile,
An whare will ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance
To cowe the rebel generation,
An save the honour o the nation?
They, an be dd! what right hae they
To meat, or sleep, or light o day?
Far lessto riches, powr, or freedom,
But what your lordship likes to gie them?
But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!
Your hands owre light to them, I fear;
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
I canna say but they do gaylies;
They lay aside a tender mercies,
An tirl the hallions to the birses;
Yet while theyre only poindt and herriet,
Theyll keep their stubborn Highland spirit:
But smash them! crash them a to spails,
An rot the dyvors i the jails!
The young dogs, swinge them to the labour;
Let wark an hunger mak them sober!
The hizzies, if theyre aughtlins fawsont,
Let them in Drury-lane be lessond!
An if the wives an dirty brats
Come thiggin at your doors an yetts,
Flaffin wi duds, an grey wi beas,
Frightin away your ducks an geese;
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
An gar the tatterd gypsies pack
Wi a their bastards on their back!
Go on, my Lord! I lang to meet you,
An in my house at hame to greet you;
Wi common lords ye shanna mingle,
The benmost neuk beside the ingle,
At my right han assigned your seat,
Tween Herods hip an Polycrate:
Or (if you on your station tarrow),
Between Almagro and Pizarro,
A seat, Im sure yere well deservint;
An till ye comeyour humble servant,BEELZEBUB.June 1st, Anno Mundi 5790.
