Long life, my Lord, an’ health be yours,
Unskaithedby hunger’d Highland boors;
Lord grant me nae duddie, desperate beggar,
Wi’ dirk, claymore, and rusty trigger,
May twinauldScotland o’ a life
She likes-as butchers like a knife.

Faith you and Applecross were right
To keep the Highland hounds in sight:
I doubt na! they wadbidnae better,
Than let them anceout owre the water,
Then up among thaelakes and seas,
They’ll mak what rules and laws they please:
Some daring Hancocke, or a Franklin,
May settheir Highland bluida-ranklin;
Some Washington again may head them,
Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them,
Till God knows what may be effected
When bysuch heads and hearts directed,
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire
May to Patrician rights aspire!
Naesage North now, nor sager Sackville,
To watch and premier o’er the pack vile, –
An’ whare will ye get Howes and Clintons
To bring them to a right repentance-
To cowethe rebel generation,
An’ save the honour o’ the nation?
They, an’ be d-d! what right haethey
To meat, or sleep, or light o’day?
Far less-to riches, pow’r, or freedom,
But what your lordship likes to giethem?

But hear, my lord! Glengarry, hear!
Your hand’s owrelight to them, I fear;
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies,
I cannasay but they do gaylies;
They lay aside a’ tender mercies,
An’ tirlthe hallions to the birses;
Yet while they’re only poind’t and herriet,
They’ll keep their stubborn Highland spirit:
Butsmash them! crash them a’ to spails,
An’ rot the dyvors i’the jails!
The young dogs, swinge them to the labour;
Let warkan’ hunger makthem sober!
The hizzies, if they’re aughtlinsfawsont,
Let them in Drury-lane be lesson’d!
An’ if the wives an’ dirty brats
Come thigginat your doors an’ yetts,
Flaffinwi’ duds, an’ grey wi’ beas’,
Frightin away your ducks an’ geese;
Getout a horsewhip or a jowler,
The langest thong, the fiercest growler,
An’ garthe tatter’d gypsies pack
Wi’ a’their bastards on their back!
Go on, my Lord! I langto meet you,
An’ in my house at hameto greetyou;
Wi’common lords ye shannamingle,
The benmostneukbeside the ingle,
At my right han’assigned your seat,
‘Tween Herod’s hip an’ Polycrate:
Orif you on your station tarrow,
Between Almagro and Pizarro,
A seat, I’m sure ye’re well deservin’t;
An’tillye come-your humble servant,

Beelzebub.
June 1st, Anno Mundi, 5790.