YE Irish lords, ye knights an squires,
Wha represent our brughs an shires,
An doucely manage our affairs
In parliament,
To you a simple poets prayrs
Are humbly sent.
Alas! my roupit Muse is hearse!
Your Honours hearts wi grief twad pierce,
To see her sittin on her arse
Low i the dust,
And scriechinh out prosaic verse,
An like to brust!
Tell them wha hae the chief direction,
Scotland an mes in great affliction,
Eer sin they laid that curst restriction
On aqua-vit&æ;
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 Scotlands drouth,
His servants humble:
The muckle deevil blaw you south
If ye dissemble!
Does ony great man glunch an gloom?
Speak out, an never fash your thumb!
Let posts an pensions sink or soom
Wi them wha grant them;
If honestly they canna come,
Far better want them.
In gathrin votes you were na slack;
Now stand as tightly by your tack:
Neer claw your lug, an fidge your back,
An hum an haw;
But raise your arm, an tell your crack
Before them a.
Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle;
Her mutchkin stowp as tooms a whissle;
An dmnd excisemen in a bussle,
Seizin a stell,
Triumphant crushint like a mussel,
Or limpet 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 winter
Of a kind coin.
Is there, that bears the name o Scot,
But feels his hearts bluid rising hot,
To see his poor auld mithers pot
Thus dung in staves,
An plunderd o her hindmost groat
By gallows knaves?
Alas! Im but a nameless wight,
Trode i the mire out o sight?
But could I like Montgomeries fight,
Or gab like Boswell, 2
Theres some sark-necks I wad draw tight,
An tie some hose well.
God bless your Honours! can ye seet
The kind, auld cantie carlin greet,
An no get warmly to your feet,
An gar them hear it,
An tell them wia patriot-heat
Ye winna bear it?
Some o you nicely ken the laws,
To round the period an pause,
An with rhetoric clause on clause
To mak harangues;
Then echo thro Saint Stephens was
Auld Scotlands wrangs.
Dempster, 3 a true blue Scot Ise warran;
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran; 4
An that glib-gabbit Highland baron,
The Laird o Graham; 5
An ane, a chap thats damnd aulfarran,
Dundas his name: 6
Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; 7
True Campbells, Frederick and Ilay; 8
An Livistone, the bauld Sir Willie; 9
An mony ithers,
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully
Might own for brithers.
See sodger Hugh, 10 my watchman stented,
If poets eer are represented;
I ken if that your sword were wanted,
Yed lend a hand;
But when theres ought to say anent it,
Yere at a stand.
Arouse, my boys! exert your mettle,
To get auld Scotland back her kettle;
Or faith! Ill wad my new pleugh-pettle,
Yell seet or lang,
Shell teach you, wi a reekin whittle,
Anither sang.
This while shes been in crankous mood,
Her lost Militia fird her bluid;
(Deil na they never mair do guid,
Playd her that pliskie!)
An now shes like to rin red-wud
About her whisky.
An Lord! if ance they pit her tillt,
Her tartan petticoat shell kilt,
Andurk an pistol at her belt,
Shell tak the streets,
An rin her whittle to the hilt,
I the 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 an lear,
To get remead.
Yon ill-tongud tinkler, Charlie Fox,
May taunt you wi his jeers and mocks;
But gie himt het, my hearty cocks!
Een cowe the cadie!
An send him to his dicing box
An sportin lady.
Tell you guid bluid o auld Boconnocks, 11
Ill be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks,
An drink his health in auld Nance Tinnocks 12
Nine times a-week,
If he some scheme, like tea an winnocks,
Was kindly seek.
Could he some commutation broach,
Ill pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch,
He needna fear their foul reproach
Nor erudition,
Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch,
The Coalition.
Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue;
Shes just a devil wi a rung;
An if she promise auld or young
To tak their part,
Tho by the neck she should be strung,
Shell no desert.
And now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty,
May still you mithers heart support ye;
Then, thoa minister grow dorty,
An kick your place,
Yell snap your gingers, poor an 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 an prays,
While Rab his name is.
POSTSCRIPTLET half-starvd slaves in warmer skies
See future wines, rich-clustring, rise;
Their lot auld Scotland nere envies,
But, blythe and frisky,
She 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 famishd swarms,
The scented groves;
Or, hounded forth, dishonour arms
In hungry droves!
Their guns a burden on their shouther;
They downa bide the stink o powther;
Their bauldest thoughts a hankring swither
To stan or rin,
Till skelpa shottheyre aff, athrowther,
To save their skin.
But bring a Scotchman frae his hill,
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill,
Say, such is royal Georges will,
An theres 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;
Wibluidy hand a welcome gies him;
An when he fas,
His latest draught o breathin leaes him
In faint huzzas.
Sages their solemn een may steek,
An raise a philosophic reek,
An physically causes seek,
In clime an season;
But tell me whiskys name in Greek
Ill tell the reason.
Scotland, my auld, respected mither!
Tho whiles ye moistify your leather,
Till, whare ye sit on craps o heather,
Ye tine your dam;
Freedom an whisky gang thegither!
Take aff your dram!
Note 1. This was written before the Act anent the Scotch distilleries, of session 1786, for which Scotland and the author return their most grateful thanks.R. B. [back]
Note 2. James Boswell of Auchinleck, the biographer of Johnson. [back]
Note 3. George Dempster of Dunnichen. [back]
Note 4. Sir Adam Ferguson of Kilkerran, Bart. [back]
Note 5. The Marquis of Graham, eldest son of the Duke of Montrose. [back]
Note 6. Right Hon. Henry Dundas, M. P. [back]
Note 7. Probably Thomas, afterward Lord Erskine. [back]
Note 8. Lord Frederick Campbell, second brother of the Duke of Argyll, and Ilay Campbell, Lord Advocate for Scotland, afterward President of the Court of Session. [back]
Note 9. Sir Wm. Augustus Cunningham, Baronet, of Livingstone. [back]
Note 10. Col. Hugh Montgomery, afterward Earl of Eglinton. [back]
Note 11. Pitt, whose grandfather was of Boconnock in Cornwall. [back]
Note 12. A worthy old hostess of the authors in Mauchline, where he sometimes studies politics over a glass of gude auld Scotch Drink.R. B. [back]